


Every Me and Every You

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: EWE, Falling In Love, Forced Proximity, Frotting, Gift Fic, Legilimency, M/M, Magical Theory, Mutual Masturbation, RST, Really just all the sex, Rimming, Snark, Tropes (please read author's note!), UST, Veritaserum, bed sharing, magical sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 00:18:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 69,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14705559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: Harry liked his life justfine,thankyouverymuch — so it was bad enough when a sly fairy cursed him to leap into alternate realities. But seeingMalfoyin all of them? Definitely way too much. And worse yet: needing the bastard's help to figure out how to get out of of it.It was a disaster waiting to happen, really.Well... probably.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magpie_fngrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/gifts).



> AN 1: This is... god. A long overdue birthday present and love letter, of sorts, to my incredibly dear friend [magpie_fngrl.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/pseuds/magpie_fngrl/works?fandom_id=136512) You've been so kind and warm and funny since we met, so supportive in so many ways, and I wanted to do something really special to show how much I admire you, and how inspiring you've been. So, er, remember when I asked if I could make heavy references to some of your works? Well, I hope you don't mind that I went for it. :D I love you so much, babe. 
> 
> (And if you start thinking that shares some light themes with your [incredible gift](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11789445) to _me_? Well, what can I say but #mindsync. LOL.  <3)
> 
> AN 2: A deep, heartfelt _thank you_ goes out to [lq_traintracks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks), whose thoughtful and encouraging beta helped me whip this into shape and kept me afloat when I floundered; you're more wonderful than I can say. And to [shiftylinguini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftylinguini/pseuds/shiftylinguini/works?fandom_id=136512) and [chibaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibaken/pseuds/chibaken) for for your support and enthusiasm when I rambled, and your patience when I felt like covering myself in burlap forever. I'm so lucky to have all of you. <3
> 
> AN 3: There are several tropes in this fic, and I'm not tagging for any of them, really (I'd like to maintain some surprise and mystery. lol). But I recognise that a few of them might not be your cup of tea, so I'll be leaving a spoiler set of tags at the end of the fic. Please click there if you want to make sure this is something you can read. <3
> 
> AN 4: As mentioned in AN 1 (yeah, I know this is long, please just read. lolol), I make several references to magpie's fics. Links can be found within, and will be at the end of each chapter. I _highly_ encourage the reading of said fics. Not only will it make the experience of reading _this_ more fun (I hope! lol), they're absolutely _awesome._
> 
> AN 5: All characters belong to JKR and associated publishers. Title taken from the Placebo song Every You and Every Me.

Rarely did Harry pray for a reason to leave work early, but there were nine hours left in his ten hour shift, and he was already _so done_ for the day.

Unfortunately, Ron didn’t seem to catch either his mood or his glare. He kept going, voice low and gleeful. “—so, anyway, there was this article about how when they orgasm, it increases the likelihood of conception, you know. I guess muscle contractions, or whatnot—” Harry gritted his teeth, “—and so she bought _toys_. Honestly, I was a little… uh, _you know_ , about them. Thought it meant I wasn’t doing my job. But I actually really like them,” he said, nodding seriously as Harry considered bashing his head against his desk. “I like knowing for certain; y’know how sometimes you can tell and sometimes you can’t? I mean, I’m pretty sure— Hermione’s not one for keeping secrets; remember how she lectured us about the female orgasm back in eighth year?”

Harry did. He also slightly loathed Ron for the reminder. “Yeah.”

“Well, anyway. She’s never been shy about speaking up in that respect, so she told me to stuff it when I asked if I wasn’t…” Ron cleared his throat, chest puffing out, smile absurdly wide. “We had a good little fight about it. Then she bought some toys _just for me._ ”

“Congratulations,” Harry muttered for what must have been the fifth time in the last few days. He thought about asking a sarcastic question, but he was a little afraid he’d get a real answer.

“Thanks,” Ron said. “Plus, I didn’t know there were positions we hadn’t tried before. But there are. Merlin, are there.” He sounded admiring, and Harry looked up from the glass-encased Snitch on his desk, deciding it was too expensive to throw at his best friend. “Just this morning, as a matter of fact, Hermione surprised me in the shower, and you remember how Dad got us all those Muggle shower stools last year? Well, she propped her leg on it and braced against—”

“Stop,” Harry said desperately. “ _Please_ stop.”

Ron’s mouth closed; he looked wounded. “I’m just talking about—”

“For an hour,” Harry said heavily. “An _hour_ , Ron. And the last week, since you guys decided to have a baby. It’s all I hear about.”

Ron’s hurt expression melted into one of sympathy. “I don’t mean to brag. I know you’re going through, er, a dry spell.”

“It’s not about me getting _laid_ ,” Harry snapped. “It’s about knowing what best turns on someone I think of as a sister.” He sighed. “I don’t exactly need to know that when you swirl your tongue a certain way, she squeaks four times in a row.” 

“I would have listened if you’d wanted to talk about Gin,” Ron huffed. 

Harry snorted. “Sure you would.”

“I would have! Or, you know, any of the many people you’re seeing through your very, very wet spell.”

Harry rolled his eyes and shoved his chair back. He grabbed his robes from the hook beside their door. “I need some coffee, then we should check out those reports of the Vampire nest Glamouring Muggles over in Surrey.”

He had his hand on the doorknob when it turned and Hermione poked her head in. Harry went back with the door and she spotted Ron first. 

“Where’s Harry?” she asked, sotto voce. “I have about fifteen minutes before I have to go into my meeting, and I thought— Oh.” She went pink. “Hi, Harry.” Her eyes lifted innocently to the ceiling. “Going somewhere?”

Tension built in Harry’s jaw. “To get coffee.”

She stepped in and ran a practiced gaze over him. “You should eat, too. I bet you haven’t since last night.”

“Hermione—”

“Yeah, eat,” Ron said eagerly. “You should eat. We check out the nest in fifteen minutes.”

“Maybe I don’t want coffee after all,” Harry said with a grimace. “Maybe I’ll just stay right here.”

Hermione frowned. “Well, we actually need the space for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s my office, too!”

“Harry.” Hermione chewed her lip, then took a sturdy breath. She lowered her voice. “I don’t think you’ll want to be here. We actually need it for— Well, right now, we’re—”

“He knows,” Ron said. He sounded so happy Harry fleetingly wondered how to hex his own ears shut. “I told him, you know, about the… uh, stuff.”

“Oh. Right.” Hermione looked to him, blinking. She raised politely expectant eyebrows. “So…”

Flabbergasted, Harry swung his gaze to each of them in turn. Hermione returned his glare with gentle patience; Ron, with a smile that made Harry want to punch a wall. Defeated, he said, “Just stay the bloody hell away from my desk,” and stalked out. As the door slammed shut behind him, he heard Hermione murmur, “We really should find someone for him.”

Harry made his way to the canteen and ordered a coffee, trying to calm down. It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy for them. It wasn’t even that he _really_ minded knowing what was going on; the three of them probably had fewer boundaries than they should at this point, but he generally liked it that way. It simply grated on his nerves having to hear about it so consistently when…

He sighed and took his coffee from the canteen witch, deciding that he had two options: to listen to Ron and Hermione, or be petty and not give them any credit for perception. He was pretty sure he was going to go with the latter.

He sat down and poured in a heavy dose of sugar to fight the building ache in his forehead; a movement from the corner of his eye made him look up, and the ache bloomed fresh. 

Malfoy lounged two tables over, watching him. He raised his paper cup in a mocking, ‘cheers,’ before taking a long draw from it. 

Bloody perfect.

Harry tried to ignore him, but he was already too off-kilter. Malfoy's particular brand of sly conceit always made him feel sixteen again and idiotically certain Malfoy was _up to something._ It was a ridiculously bad habit, Harry knew, but one that could be bizarrely comforting under the right circumstances. 

These weren't those.

Malfoy took another duplicitous sip of his drink and checked his watch. His eyes gleamed at Harry before sliding away, and Harry gulped his coffee, coughing and swearing a little when it burned his tongue. He grabbed a napkin to blot the spill on his robes and startled when Malfoy stood.

“Just tea,” he said lightly as he brushed past where Harry sat, transfixed and irritable, to set his cup in the banishing bin. Harry could see the silver and purple striping of his tie above the collar of his grey robes. “Hardly an arrestable offence.”

"Don't exactly need anymore of _those_ , do you?" Harry shot back. He felt a flash of regret when Malfoy’s jaw knotted. Malfoy stopped, turning on the ball of his foot to face him.

“Living up to type today, I see. Good to see you, Potter,” he said with a formal nod, slender chest expanding against his robes. He strode off without another word. Harry stared after him, feeling flummoxed and annoyed and...everything Malfoy always made him feel. 

He wasn’t like that with everyone, Harry knew; his smug taunts were Harry-specific. Once, when Malfoy had first started working at the Ministry, he’d been bumped by someone and Harry had knelt to help him gather his scattered parchment. He hadn't quite known what to expect at that point — Malfoy had been awkwardly affable, joining the Unspeakables and Aurors for drinks (even paying for the occasional round), and endeavoring to step out of his Slytherin clique. So Harry’d found himself surprised to barely get a _thank you_ for his effort, and Malfoy’s tone had left a lot to be desired as well, a reflexive sneer twisting his face as though he’d wanted to chase his expressed gratitude with an insult. It was what had set the tone of their entire adult relationship, Harry realised, when he thought back to it.

They saw each other with enough frequency — at the pub after work, on Diagon Alley, in the Ministry canteen — that Harry knew he could be decent. That they could get along, or pretend to. In group settings Harry actually found himself unwinding a bit, smiling occasionally at one of Malfoy’s acerbic comments, engaging with him directly or indirectly. Which was why he found himself so pissed off in moments like _this_.

He took another minute to gather himself, taking more careful sips of his coffee until it was half-gone. Only a few minutes had passed since the horror of his best friends announcing they were about to shag, but Harry got up anyway and headed back to the inner sanctum of the MLE offices. He was flagged down by the report desk.

“Small disturbance on the corner of Diagon and Knockturn!” The weird amalgamation of the Patronus of several difference witnesses — it looked like a cat-lizard-dolphin-owl thing — was still fading as the intake witch chirped at him, her voice disgustingly cheerful. She handed him the parchment and Harry scanned it. A knocked over cart and two shop owners arguing over it.

“Aurors Chang and Marsh are on duty,” he told her. “Auror Weasley and I were headed somewhere else in a few minutes. Can I have the assignment for the Vampire nest in Surrey, please?”

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head when he tried to pass the report back to her. She gave him an apologetic smile. “We got another report of an Obliviated Muggle with fang marks just a minute ago, and Aurors Chang and Marsh were at their desks; they took it.”

Harry sighed and checked the clock; there were still seven minutes left on count, and there was no way he was going back into his office a second early. He took a last, fortifying gulp of his coffee and headed to the Auror Apparition point.

***

It wasn’t, as it turned out, an argument between two shop owners.

Harry heard the argument as he landed and drew his wand, jogging quickly onto the cobblestone footpath that led up Knockturn. A delicately-boned witch in a hooded cape snarled upward at a tall, older wizard with a barrel chest. He towered over her, clearly trying to intimidate, but her wand — a gnarled thing with a crooked tip — was pulled and aimed at his chin. 

“Auror Department,” Harry announced, lifting his wand as he approached. They ignored him, what he could hear of their argument devolving into taunts about sexual prowess. Harry controlled a wince when the wizard’s outraged scowl darkened and he reached for the wand at his hip. 

“Wands away!” he barked, casting a sharp Silencing charm to both their tongues. Their voices ceased, but blue magic fizzled at the end of the witch’s wand, and Harry cast a _Protego_ in case she got any ideas about hexing the wizard. She glared at each of them, arm dropping slightly. Harry exhaled and glanced around. “There are three broken windows, and the imp statue in front of that shop is cowering like he’s afraid one of you is going to disintegrate him. Tell me what this is about and I’ll see if we can resolve it without me having to haul both of your arses in.” He pointed to the witch, keeping his shield charm up as he unsilenced her. “You. Start.”

“He _owes me_ ,” she said silkily. “I gave him something, and he _owes_ me.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Right then, what did you give him?”

“Not what you’re thinking, sonny,” she said with a smirk, eyeing him up and down for a moment, wand still pointed at her patron. She was several years older than him — perhaps thirty, Harry guessed — but her bottomless black eyes and starkly ethereal skin gave her an ageless quality. She shook the hood of her cloak back to reveal the graceful line of her neck and flaxen hair that was done up in an old-fashioned, bulky coil of braids. He’d have thought her beautiful if he could ignore the way her dark eyes shifted. Her gaze lit briefly on his scar. “Wouldn’t charge _you_ for that, at least.” Harry reached for patience and she chuckled, a curious tilt to her head as she studied him. Abruptly, she jerked her chin at the wizard. “A specialised potion.”

“If you yell, I’ll Silence you again,” Harry said to the wizard, whose face was turning purple as he tried to object. 

The wizard hinged his jaw from side to side as his voice was released. He looked down at the witch. “It won't work,” he said coldly. “She didn’t even use my skin or hair in it.”

“I didn’t _need_ to,” she said. Then, to Harry, “He claims it won’t work but refuses to return it from his pocket.”

“I’ll pay if I'm wrong,” the wizard said stiffly. 

Her wand inched up. “You have a contingency plan, then, I suppose? For how I shall receive payment when you’ve—” She broke off, nostrils flaring. Her eyes travelled to Harry again, resting on him thoughtfully. Harry stiffened against the shiver skittering up his spine. 

After a beat, she looked back to the wizard, her voice now measured, calm, even beautiful. It reminded Harry of the sing-song taunts he’d heard as a child. “That was not what we discussed.”

“You didn’t make it clear,” the wizard growled. “You filthy creatures, liars every one of—”

She spread her hands wide and he cut himself off. Harry stepped between them, narrowing his eyes.

“Potion transactions require a license,” Harry said. The wizard huffed, arrogant and sharp; to his obvious consternation, the witch continued to look unconcerned. Harry’s dislike toward him tripled. He held out a hand and snapped, “As do purchases, when not made in a licensed apothecary.”

Grudgingly, the wizard drew the vial out of the inner pocket of his cloak.

“Oh,” Harry murmured, blinking. It was the oddest twilight purple, with two red strands of thick liquid twisting through it, twining around each other and then moving away. It was mesmerising, like the lava lamp Dudley got — and promptly broke — when Harry was eight. Harry charmed his hands and took the vial. “What is it?”

The wizard said, “Felix Felicis.”

Harry snorted. He twirled the vial, admiring the way the scarlet wisps slid through the violet glow. “Try again.”

Harry played with the cork of the vial, examining it when neither of them spoke. With a warning glance, he charmed himself with a protective spell and uncapped it, bringing it up to his nose and taking a small sniff. It was cool and fresh; tangy-sweet. Like ripened winterberries. 

“Curious, aren’t you? Odd that you should show up for this,” the witch murmured. 

“I agree, but apparently I can’t choose my assignments anymore,” he said, to her amusement. It was somehow infectious, and he found himself returning her smile, wider when the wizard glowered at them. 

“Fate is a funny thing, isn’t it?” Her shoulders rose and fell, a graceful, economic movement. “Where it leads us… the things it does for us when you understand the links.”

“Not so funny, in my experience,” Harry said, finding himself once again mesmerised by the dance of colours in the potion. Her mouth drew into a small moue of disapproval. 

“If you have no appreciation for it, what are you doing here?” 

Harry looked at her sharply; her light tone carried a ripple of warning down his spine. He straightened. “I’m taking you both in, is what.” 

“You are, are you?” the witch asked. “I've heard of you, you know.”

“What a shock.” Harry capped the vial. The wizard was practically vibrating out of his spot with tension, one hand half-stretched toward Harry, fingers curled like he expected to get the vial back. His upper lip had pulled back when the witch mentioned having heard of Harry. His disdain for Harry and the witch, along with his expensive attire, were at odds with his nervous energy and the clear desperation he projected to get the potion. Harry slipped the vial into his robes and said, “You’ll need to come with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he blustered. “If you don’t give that back, you’ll be speaking with my solicitor for illegally holding my property—” The witch gave a delicate cough. “—I don’t care how accustomed you are to getting what you want.”

“Believe me when I say never,” Harry said through his teeth, headache building again. He heard the crack of Apparition down the street, Ron’s voice calling from around the corner. He gestured with his wand and fought to maintain his patient smile when the wizard scoffed. “Step to her side, please.”

With a suddenness that belied his age, the wizard lunged — not at Harry, but at the witch, hands coming up to her throat. Instinctively, Harry raised his wand to cast a Body Bind, but even as it hit him, the wizard was already being thrown back by an outside force, disappearing as though from Apparition. The wind whipped up, howling and sharp, but time squeaked to a stand still; Harry had two seconds of confused observation — Ron frozen mid-step and the disturbed dust motes dangling in place — and then the world hurtled around Harry and melted into something new: a field, overbright with flowers. He could hear the sound of rushing water nearby.

Harry whirled back to the witch, expecting to find her gone. She stood calmly before him, dark eyes burning. A faint perriwinkle glow emitted from her skin, and Harry drew in a dizzying breath. He raised his wand — everything felt slow as treacle, the sizzle of magic muffled in him, though it sprang up from the earth they stood on, great, giddy shivers of it. Mind racing, Harry cast a discreet location spell but whatever magic spilled out from him was absorbed in the atmosphere immediately. 

The witch waited. Her eyes on him made him feel like he had after the war: raw; exposed.

“Where are we?”

“I thought we could use the privacy,” she said.

“There are plenty of private interview rooms at the Auror offices,” he offered in a careful murmur. She didn't respond. “Who are you?”

She shook her head. “No one who matters; someone of consequence. What did you mean, you don’t get what you want?” 

Harry slanted her a disbelieving smile. “Well, let’s see if I can think of a good example. Oh. I generally prefer not to get abducted.”

With a light laugh, she lowered herself into the soft grass, her robes fanning out around her. She idly unwound the plait on her head, loosening it with long strokes of her fingers until her hair rippled over her shoulders like water. “I appreciated the assistance.”

“Just doing my job,” Harry said, looking around for clues. The air was temperate; sweet. The field itself was surrounded by a wall of thick foliage, none of which looked like it belonged anywhere other than the tropics. 

“No, you weren’t.”

“Fine, I’m a natural hero.”

She laughed again. “You say that as a joke. I would like to give you something.”

“Alright, how about your name?”

“A gift, I mean.”

“In lieu of gifts, I appreciate donations to the War Orphans Fund,” Harry said. He skirted around the narrow circumference of the meadow, periodically checking for weaknesses in the wild, tangled plantlife that trapped them. His _alohomora_ s were met with nothing more than a light ruffling of leaves. Another round of her delighted laughter caught his attention. 

“You feel you have no choices in life,” she said. “You’re lonely.”

Harry bristled. “Well, you brought us to an isolated spot and all—”

“Don’t toy with me, Mr Potter,” she said, voice turning acid. “I see more than you realise.”

He flipped her two fingers. “See that?”

He barely saw her stand, it happened so fluidly. She approached him and Harry braced himself, but she only trailed a hand up his chest to flatten over the wild beat of his heart. His pulse thudded rapidly, a surge of chaotic emotion clogging his throat.

“You’re a stubborn one, but you would like to know there’s more, wouldn’t you?” Her bottomless black eyes twinkled at him, inviting him in on a joke. “I can show you. I happen to have a substantial talent that only manifests with a rare few, and I do appreciate a true seeker; there are not enough.”

Abandoning his Quidditch joke at her avid gaze, Harry snapped a hand around her wrist, grinding her delicate bones in his grip. “I know enough.”

“You…” She shuddered, licked her lips. “You see it and can’t find it, this thing you want.”

 

“Stop.”

“You are owed so much,” she whispered. A tendril of true fear licked up his spine. His muscles were locked, and her hand was slowly heating up over the fabric of his robes. “When will it ever be time to accept repayment, I wonder.”

She closed her eyes, inhaling slow as if breathing him in. Harry tried to respond and found that he couldn't, her fingers clawing lightly against his chest, and sinking in. His skin flared hot under her palm and the world spun around him again; his knees threatened to buckle, and he fought to keep his feet planted. 

“There,” she whispered. The pull of her hand off him happened slowly, wrist to palm to fingers to fingertips. Once she was no longer touching him, she stepped back. “To help you find what you want. All you need do is make the choice that feels... right.” 

“Oh good,” Harry gasped, once he’d gained his equilibrium. He felt ill. “I have practice.”

She grinned. “Not for yourself.” From her cloak, she drew another stoppered vial, seemingly identical to the one he’d seized from the wizard. Harry’s fingers closed around it automatically. “Drink this. It will take you where you want to go, when I’m gone,” she said. “Summon me if you have questions.”

Staring at her with blank incredulity, Harry said, “I have nothing _but_ questions.”

“Oh, good,” she sighed, glowing blue as she started to fade out of sight. “I have so many answers for you.”

***

“Are you sure you’ve been cleared to drink?” Ron asked sheepishly, handing him a second bottle of beer. Harry took a long pull from it.

“I’m sure,” he said, licking his lips. “Mungo’s performed a dozen tests. All wildly invasive.”

It was an exaggeration, but not much of one, and he was enjoying the guilty look on Ron’s face too much to let him off the hook just yet. 

“At least you had an extra vial for testing,” Ron said, sliding into the booth across from him. 

“Yeah,” Harry said wryly. “Always good to have an extra vial of the unknown, possibly poisonous potion you’re forced to drink to get home from a mysterious place that eats your magic.” He took another swallow, mood improving every second. The alcohol from his first hadn’t hit his system yet, but the very fact that it would soon made him cheerful. “Especially when you’ve been kidnapped and your best mate and partner is otherwise engaged.” 

He scanned the pub as Ron huffed. The crowd was getting livelier, the way it tended to just before the weekend hit. He spotted Gin in the corner talking to Angelina, and Neville gave a wave from the booth next to theirs, one arm slung over Hannah’s shoulders. Harry waved back, then smiled and shook his head at Cho and Susan, who were beckoning at him near the dart tournament starting. His gaze landed on a set of grey eyes, staring at him enigmatically from the bar. Malfoy was still dressed in his Unspeakable robes, his hair tucked neatly behind his ears and slipping soft against his line of his jaw. Seeing Harry notice him, he promptly spun on his stool and started talking to Blaise Zabini, who — in a pair of charcoal trousers and white linen shirt with the cuffs rolled up — looked properly relaxed, like someone should when out having a drink. Unlike others.

“You could have waited for me,” Ron grumbled, catching his attention. “I didn’t even see you go anywhere, just the others disappearing.”

“You doubt me?” Harry forced his eyes away from the bar and put a wounded hand to his chest.

“Don’t be a wanker.”

“Not all of us have a wife who’s ovulating.”

Blinking owlishly, Ron said, “She’s not ovulating _yet_.”

Harry stared at him. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said carefully, high spirits threatening to evaporate, “that you’ve been using our office for sex when it’s not strictly necessary?”

“Shh!” Ron looked around, lifting one shoulder and scratching his jaw. “Well, yeah. You could, too, you know.” He frowned at whatever he saw on Harry’s face. “Why are you in such a shit mood? _Other_ than the kidnapping?” he asked pointedly when Harry opened his mouth.

Harry let his breath go to the count of ten. He took a few more gulps of his beer and conceded that his temper could do with some improvement. Finally, he said, “I’m… not. I’m sorry. It’s been a weird day.”

“More and more of ‘em, mate,” Ron said, looking at him closely. “You should take some time off.”

“I don’t have anything else to do,” Harry said. “I mean, I like work.”

“Hard to keep liking something when it’s all you do,” Ron said quietly. Harry shook his head, stomach souring. He picked at the label of his bottle and Ron sighed. “I think you’re the only one of us who still pulls as many shifts; more, since you got promoted. Pretty sure Robards meant for you to delegate more. Maybe just think about it. You never know; if you took a holiday, you could meet some—”

Harry stood. “Next one’s on me,” he said, raising is empty bottle. His chest burned with uneasy embarrassment. There was no way to explain the deep sense of dissatisfaction he’d been feeling lately, or how Ron and Hermione _contributed_ to it in some way — Merlin knew he’d do anything for them, die or kill, even. He didn’t understand it himself. It helped, to throw himself into work. But — sometimes he watched Ron at the joke shop with George, or Hermione talking to someone on the Wizengamot, and could see how many things were open to them, which had never felt true in his case. And the way they were _together…_

He pushed the thought out of his mind as he reached the bar, shoving in next to Blaise to lean across it and capture the bartender’s attention. He held up two fingers and his empty bottle and got a distracted nod. 

“Hey, Harry.” Blaise smiled, full lips curling up attractively; but then, everything he did was attractive. Harry’d gotten to know him a bit when he and Gin had started dating (though Ginny hadn’t called it that) — they hadn’t lasted long, but he wasn’t a bad sort.

“Hey, Blaise. Malfoy.” 

“Potter.”

“Heard you were on the Potions Control ward for awhile today,” Blaise said. Malfoy’s silvery gaze swerved to him and Harry nodded. 

“Yeah, I forgot you worked there.”

“Spell Damage,” Blaise said. “Everything okay?”

Harry hummed noncommittally. “Got abducted and had to drink an unknown potion to get back when my captor disappeared,” he summarised. “We're looking for her.” He left out the bit about how the meadow had seemed to shrink in her absence, air and light dwindling to the point he was reminded of —

“What did it taste like?” 

Harry looked at Malfoy, grateful for the interruption to his thoughts. “Taste?” He hesitated. “Honeysuckle and lemon. A bit of doxy venom, too. Why?”

Malfoy shrugged and took a sip of his drink, dead-ending the conversation until Blaise said, “Someone managed to abduct you again?” 

A tiny snort escaped Harry's nose even as he grimaced. The first year of Auror training, he'd been taken hostage by both worshippers and detractors in quick succession. The first group, he'd managed to talk into releasing him by offering blessings over their magic; the second, he'd had to… get more stern with. After the rubble their hideout had turned into, no one had tried it since.

“A fairy, actually, to hear Ron’s version,” he said. “Though I keep telling him she had no wings.” 

“They don't always,” Blaise said. Next to him, Malfoy nodded, a slight smile on his face. “Rare, though. She looked human?” 

“Yep. To me.” Harry smiled at the bartender and took the bottles he offered. He turned and saw Hermione had joined their booth. She was fitted comfortably to Ron’s side. He sighed and leaned against the bar. “Must be a pureblood thing to notice the fairy part.” 

“They emit a blue glow when they perform magic,” Malfoy said dismissively. “Even Muggles — or someone wearing ugly glasses — should be able to see it.” 

Harry smirked at him and turned to Blaise. “Spell Damage?” Blaise nodded, long, dark fingers toying with the cut edgings of his crystal tumbler. He caught Harry’s eyes on them and blinked, then gave a slow smile. Harry sucked in a breath. “We’ve got an alert out for a wizard who might have been in an extended Body Bind,” he said, lowering his voice. Blaise ducked closer to hear him and Harry eyed the flutter of his pulse at the base of his throat. “Sometimes they don’t tell us right away. Heard anything?”

“Heard the alert,” Blaise said, finally shifting away. He looked amused and intrigued, and glanced once at Malfoy. “No one’s come in, though.”

Harry considered him. He felt better than he had all day, more relaxed, calmer. Blaise’s exploits — before and after Ginny — were probably exaggerated, but if even half of them were true, it was no wonder he exuded such a lazy sort of confidence. Whether it was that or Harry’s second beer which was blurring so much of his tension from the previous twelve hours, Harry decided he liked it. 

Maybe Ron and Hermione were right. 

He cleared his throat, but Blaise abruptly set his tumbler on the bar with a heavy thunk and stepped away. 

“That’s it for me, Draco.” He clapped a hand over Malfoy’s shoulder and gave a squeeze. Malfoy seemed as surprised as Harry but nodded, closing his mouth over the question he obviously wanted to ask. Blaise leaned in to murmur something to him and Malfoy shook his head, but the barest traces of a derisively indulgent smile creased the corner of his mouth. To Harry, Blaise explained, “Need to be at the hospital in the morning.”

Harry nodded as Blaise moved off through the crowd, wishing he felt more disappointed. Or anything really. But he still felt calm in Blaise’s absence, and even Malfoy’s habitual scowl didn't incline him to move.

He waved for another before realising he still had the one he was supposed to give to Ron. He sipped it in the silence and, when the bartender brought over the extra, offered it to Malfoy, who seemed content to glower into his whiskey. 

“Peace offering,” Harry said, trying to interject some friendliness into his tone when Malfoy gave him a suspicious look. “I was a dick this morning.”

“When are you not?” Malfoy asked tartly. He didn’t take the beer, so Harry set it on the bar, sliding into the gap of space Blaise had left. 

“I dunno. Occasionally. Not this morning,” Harry said, taking another drink. But he couldn’t quite let it go and followed his admission with, “Then again, so were you.”

To his surprise, Malfoy snorted. “If you think I appreciate having something in common with you, you’re mistaken.” Harry grinned and Malfoy’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He drained the last of his whiskey, his throat working in a clean, long swallow that drew Harry’s attention. 

“I might cry if you keep being so nice,” Harry said blandly. He nudged the bottle closer to Malfoy, half anticipating Malfoy to sneer at it; he'd never once seen Malfoy with anything as common as a beer before.

Malfoy flicked his eyes to the bottle. His face, if anything, grew more guarded, shuttering to marble-like stillness. He slid his hand flat over the counter and curled his fingers around the bottle. The tip of his thumb brushed Harry's knuckles, and Harry startled at the shock that flowed through him, almost knocking the beer out of Malfoy's tentative grip. He choked on his own mouthful of beer, coughing it out all over his t-shirt.

“I never figured you for such a lightweight,” Malfoy murmured, raising that damned eyebrow again as he lifted the bottle to his mouth.

“I'm not,” Harry muttered resentfully, dabbing at his shirt. That made twice in twelve hours Malfoy had made him spill his drink. He glanced up to see Malfoy staring at him, unimpressed, and sighed. To make up for his tone, he gestured and said, “They have a tournament going on.”

Malfoy swivelled on his stool and observed the dart game in silence, taking periodic sips of his beer. It was a dark ale, rich and bitter, but he didn’t betray any possible distaste by a single flutter of his eyelashes. After a pause he said, “They do.”

Harry swallowed. He set down his bottle, an opaque mist obscuring his vision before clearing. He shook his head. 

“Potter?”

“Yeah, I…” Harry flashed him what he hoped was a smile; it came out feeling more like a grimace. “We could play, if you want. You’re good.” 

He flushed; he hadn’t planned to say that. From the look on his face, it wasn’t something Malfoy had expected to hear, either, though it wasn’t as if Harry hadn’t been there, plenty of times, when Malfoy had a game with someone. 

“We could,” Malfoy said evenly. “Though it looks like the idea makes you want to vomit.”

“No, I just...want to.” Harry took a deep breath as Malfoy scooted further back. The room seemed to twist around him, and his stomach lurched with every spin. “Another time, maybe. “S’cuse me.”

Without waiting for a response, Harry headed back to his booth. With every step, his legs threatened to buckle under him; he felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed, doggedly making his way back to Ron and Hermione. They looked up at his approach, identical expressions of alarm spreading across their faces. 

“Harry?” Hermione slid out of the booth. “What happened?”

“Nothing, I—”

Her voice faded, until all he could hear was her tone, soft and inquisitive, one hand coming up to touch his jaw. Ron stood too and Harry blinked at him slowly.

“ —drank too fast,” he managed. A sharp, steady hum buzzed in his ears. He straightened his shoulders and he shook his head again, not budging the persistent noise, barely able to hear himself. He raised his voice, hand finding his wand at his hip in case he fell. “I just need a sobering potion. D’you have one?”

“—ry? Mate? What’s—” Harry dragged his eyes up to Ron, unable to understand why Ron’s face was the only thing he could focus on. The world wobbled around him, shimmered. Ron’s voice grew choppy. It was like being on the precipice of a dream, Harry thought. 

_Buggering fuck_ he thought, and slipped into it — fully awake and gripping his wand — and there was a moment during which he didn’t recognise anything but his own person before everything made sense.

A moment during which he was himself and _other_... which made no sense at all.

***

[_“How goes marriage, my son?”_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13706082)

Harry looked at his father, mouth agape. He struggled for a moment to realign his thoughts after the dizzying twist, not unlike Apparition, that still lingered in his midsection, unifying _here_ and _there_.

There were things he knew right away: he was a prince, he was in love. He had recently married to join his kingdom with another’s. His body pulsed pleasantly as the question ran through his mind again. He smiled and answered without thinking. “Much less painful than I feared.”

_Where the fuck am I?_

His father, the king — _The king?_ — laughed. The glinting crown he wore, decorated with intricately scrolled lions with rubies for eyes, tilted atop his head as he rocked back and forth. When he calmed, he straightened it and knowingly said, “So then I would not be remiss if I said ‘I told you so?’”

Somehow, Harry knew how to answer this, too. His cheeks heated. “No, you would not.”

“I assumed as much, once the Consummation fountains sprayed. And then continued to flow.” The king smirked with playful camaraderie. “And so, you see, arranged marriage is not always a bad thing. Your new husband is comely, and not so cold as you thought?”

 _Husband_ , Harry thought. _Okay._ He forged ahead, deciding to let his mouth rule the moment. That, at least, seemed to know what was going on. He could sort out what had happened later. “No, he is not cold at all.”

“I am happy to hear it.” King James of Gryffenland leaned back in his throne, satisfaction writ across his face. “Your mother has been worried.”

“My mother,” Harry blurted. His heart threatened to choke him, lodged as it suddenly was in his throat. “...where is she?”

His father waved a hand. “She is discussing unification policy at the temple. She will return for supper.” He cocked his head curiously. “Why? Did you and your husband not break fast with her this morning?”

“No, we did, but…” Harry trailed off, confused. The throne on which he sat, one step down from his father’s, became oddly soft against his back for a second. Memories lapped at the edge of his mind, a comforting tumble of information: his mother, sitting on the edge of his marital bed and delicately forking up a slice of crispy roasted pork as she informed them of the duties that would commence upon their re-entry into the public; long, elegant fingers laced through his own; a warm body pressed next to his as he sat up in bed, a wide platter set over his lap. Tangled with them were thoughts of Ron’s worried blue gaze, of the concerned brush of Hermione’s hands against his hair. Her voice sounded in his head, yet he couldn’t quite hear it.

A page approached. He went down on one knee. “Your grace. Your husband calls for you.”

Harry sat up, immediately realising what a bad idea it was when his dizziness increased tenfold. “Is he quite alright?”

The page glanced up, face turning red. “He is...most anxious for your company, sire.”

A physical jolt of desire rippled through Harry. He cleared his throat. “Father, I should likely check. Our kingdom is still new to him, and he has not yet explored much of it.”

“Of course, my son.” His father’s eyes twinkled merrily. “I will have someone fetch you when we need you. Please bring him along; the Chancery needs to record his signature, and he has not yet met Prince—”

***

“What,” Harry gasped, “was _that?_ ”

Hermione blinked. “You're awake!” She touched his cheek with two light fingertips, encouraging him to turn so she could study him. “What was what, Harry?”

He pulled away from her. His stomach pitched and he pressed a hand against it, smacking his lips to rid his mouth of the sour taste clinging to his soft palate. Hermione’s weight on his mattress disappeared and then she offered him a glass of cool water.

“Slowly,” she cautioned when he started to drink. Obediently, he eased off. 

“What happened? I—” He looked around. “I didn’t have that much. Did I?”

“You fainted. Because you were _drinking_ ,” she said, feathering a gentle hand through his hair despite the censure in her tone. The pounding in his forehead slowly decreased to manageable levels. 

“Everyone was,” he said, baffled.

Hermione’s face flickered, and she continued stroking light fingers through his hair. “Not everyone consumed a mysterious potion earlier in the day.”

“I asked,” he said, feeling steadier. “When I was here earlier and they were doing tests. I asked if it was safe to drink and they said yes. But I saw—” 

Harry took another drink of water, distracted by his memories. When he closed his eyes, he could _see_ his father’s warm, hazel eyes, could smell the body odour of the page, could feel the light weight of the circlet on his head and the delightful, lanky press of a male body next to his as his mother chatted with him and his...

“You had a hallucination?” Hermione asked. 

“No. I went.... I was at…”

Her brow knit. “You were here, Harry. Ron or I have been with you since you passed out.”

“No, I—” Harry broke off, uncertain. “I was somewhere else. At least, it felt like I was.” Hermione made a thoughtful sound under her breath and he glanced at her. “What’s wrong?”

Neatly sidestepping in a way that didn’t distract him in the slightest, Hermione said, “Where do you think you went?”

Harry frowned at her. “What’s _wrong?_ ” 

“Nothing.” She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s really nothing. It’s good. Ron just left. The wizard that was part of your altercation this morning was found. Hugo Barclay.”

“And?” Harry swallowed. “Did I kill him?” Merlin knew it wouldn’t be the first time a Body Bind had gone wrong.

“ _No._ ” Hermione shook her head. “He’s fine. Just a little… comatose. He Splinched his jaw and liver, so they’ve got him in Healer-induced stasis as they repair the damage.” 

Harry absorbed that. “Splinched? It didn’t look like he’d Apparated; he just...”

“Disappeared, Ron told me; same time as the fairy. You actually saved his life; the Body Bind kept him from bleeding out.”

“Good. Then why are you doing that?” he asked flatly, indicating her lip, caught in her teeth — a holdover from school. She released it and frowned. 

“It’s not—” She fiddled with a strand of hair that had escaped her bun and said, cautiously, “I checked your bottles to make sure it was just beer.”

Harry blinked. “And?”

“And it was. You didn’t even finish the last one,” she said. “Your blood alcohol level was negligible. So it had to be a reaction to the potion.”

“Or I could just be really tired from getting cursed by a fairy,” Harry pointed out, though Hermione was usually pretty astute about such matters. She didn’t laugh as he’d intended, but some of the wariness on her face was replaced with untempered curiosity.

“Did you really _talk_ to one?”

“Ron says so. She looked like a regular witch to me,” he said. “Mostly.”

“They’re so interesting, Harry, and they’re so rare, too. Their magical abilities are—”

“Short version?” Harry asked.

Piqued, Hermione huffed. “There _isn’t_ a short version, not really. There are so many rumours, and they’re like… Well, think of Centaurs. That level of exclusion to the outside world. Maybe worse. They’re usually very beautiful, and some reports say that they can enchant men; others say they feed off love — sexual, emotional — like Succubi, because they’re bitter about never being able to feel it. Some are said to have prophetic abilities. Really, a lot of humanoid fairy magic remains a mystery. But Ron told me about her blue glow,” she said, and continued when Harry nodded, “which is a classic characteristic. They find their magic in the earth, so they’re notoriously good at herbal potions. But they can be—”

“What?”

“Tricksters,” she admitted. “They have very specific ideas of fairness and payment and debt, and respond...badly when misused.”

“The whole altercation with Barclay was because he tried to steal from her,” Harry said thoughtfully. 

Hermione nodded. “I read your report. We know of a coven that lives in Ireland — they’re really reclusive — and we sent a diplomatic envoy from the Relations with Magical Creatures Department to contact them. It’s possible that yours has a home amongst them.”

Harry took a deep breath. “A diplomatic envoy,” he said. “Why does anyone think it warrants a diplomatic envoy, now?”

“Well, just because everything looked fine doesn’t mean it _is_. You fainted for no reason the same day you were abducted… And now you’re hallucinating, apparently. If Mr Barclay was awake, he’d be able to help, but—” She hesitated. “What did you see?”

“I...” Harry searched for words, unable to find a way to say ‘turned into a prince,’ that didn’t sound daft. “Thought I was someone else. Sort of.” His stomach ached, thinking of it; he rubbed at it absently. “Some _time_ else, maybe.” He closed his eyes, firming his voice, and admitted, “It didn’t feel like a hallucination.”

Hermione took a step back. She examined him with a sharp eye. Harry waited for her objection, another mention of hallucinations; Hermione was nothing if not logical and pragmatic, and this was neither of those things. Instead, after a long beat, she nodded. He sagged against the upright pillows behind him at the look of open belief on her face. “Okay,” she said simply. "Tell me about it.”

***

Four hours later, Harry dusted himself off as he stepped into Grimmauld Place from the Floo. The flare of green lit the room briefly and faded, leaving him in the dark. He stood, breathing in the silence, feeling the unbearable knot of tension in his midsection ease as Grimmauld Place warmed for him the the way he’d become accustomed.

Fourteen tests, two Healers called from the Janus Thickey ward, and diagnostic magic pulsing through his veins twenty minutes, and there was still no explanation for what he’d gone through. Still, the memory of _wherever_ and _whoever the hell_ he’d been blared in his head forebodingly — as did a sickening sensation of… premonition.

“Master has returned.”

Harry jerked, squinting. He pulled his wand to light the lamps in their sconces and smiled down at Kreacher, whose wizened face was narrowed in the odd, familiar combination of distaste and loyalty. “Hi Kreacher.”

“Kreacher was preparing to grow old, alone in an empty home,” he croaked in a tone of obvious censure, still somehow managing to make it sound like a preference.

Harry managed not to snort at the _grow old_ bit and nodded. “I’m sorry. I had a little accident on an assignment, but I’m fine. If it makes you feel any better, I’m off active duty for the next few weeks,” he said with a bitter sigh. Robards had flat out told him that a “collapsing, hallucinating Auror” might need some “time off altogether,” but had settled for the compromise. He fell onto the plush sofa, raising his eyebrows at the cloud of dust that puffed up. “What—?”

Looking a little abashed, Kreacher’s gaze shifted away. “Kreacher was preparing to grow old, alone in an empty home,” he muttered again. 

This time, Harry did laugh. “So you added dust to my new sofa for… aesthetic?”

“Master was touched by magic,” Kreacher said. His big, round eyes, faded with age, sought Harry once more.

“That’s not really an excuse for—” Harry sat up. “Wait, what?”

“Master was gone.”

“I was,” Harry said slowly. Kreacher shuffled closer, one long fingered hand twisting tight in the hem of the tea-towel he wore. “Almost overnight.”

“Lifetimes,” Kreacher said in his contradictory way. Harry’s heart stuttered. “Kreacher was abandoned without moors, and then Kreacher found an anchor to Grimmauld Place again, to Master Harry. Kreacher did not think Master Harry would return.”

Harry swallowed, throat dry. “Why did you think I wouldn’t come back?”

“Magic,” Kreacher said.

“It was nothing,” Harry said unconvincingly. “Just a dream, they think.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I need to go to bed.”

Kreacher gazed at him, nodded. “Master Harry's bed is ready,” he said, which Harry took to mean it hadn't been filled with dust. He snorted and heaved himself up from sofa. 

“Clean that off, please?” he asked, gesturing to it. 

There was small, surprising twitch of Kreacher’s lips. “Kreacher does as he is bid right away, sir.”

***

_[Harry blinked at the saltwater spray against his face, icy cold and exhilarating.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582470)_ He stared at the stretch of glittering water. His body yearned to turn the ship in the direction of endless blue, but he forced himself to glance at the island they were approaching, their ship cutting through the gentle waves with slowing speed. His heart was there on the land, too, and he knew it. He glanced down at himself, at the laces that held his billowing shirt closed at the throat, at his boots and breeks.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he blurted. “I’m a pirate?”

Ron appeared beside him. He held out a finely-cut jacket and matching breeches, blue with silver threading. “Not tonight.” He grinned, showcasing two gold teeth. “Tonight, you’re Sir Harold Topter, for your _meeting_ ,” he finished with a slight leer. Harry took the clothing, fingers travelling over the poncy, satin material. _This would be better suited for—_ he thought, distracted when Ron clicked his tongue. “Careful with that. The documents are folded within, and you’ll want it clean if you’ve hopes to make it into the ball before your meeting. Riddle’s men are everywhere.”

“I know,” Harry said grimly. “But once I get these to Draco—”

Harry stopped. Ron gave him a waiting look as he untied the ropes to hoist another set of sails, slowing them further. They’d have to row in a smaller boat to the bigger island four miles off the coast of the one they were approaching, just to protect their ship from identification. 

_Draco,_ Harry thought. He saw a flash of platinum hair against the course linen of a pillowcase, a pointy chin softened by a sleepy smile. He swallowed. “Draco Malfoy?” 

Ron frowned and opened his mouth to answer—

***

“I’m fine,” Harry said wearily, knowing he sounded anything but. He closed the folder on his desk.

“You don’t look it,” Cho returned with a small huff. She tossed her fringe back, glaring with exaggerated sternness. Harry nodded, taking the scroll she offered. 

“Yeah. It’s just…”

“Desk duty?” She smirked, knowing and sympathetic, and sat without invitation in one of the chairs across from his desk. “It can’t be that bad. Well, it can, but...”

Harry leaned back in his chair, accepting the excuse. It was a lot easier than explaining the weight of his exhaustion, his unnerving dreams, or his constant stomach ache since he'd first passed out. “I’m not a huge fan of it.”

Cho inclined her head. “Well, try to get more sleep or something,” she said gently. Harry struggled not to laugh; he was pretty sure he outslept Crookshanks lately.

“Right. I’ll try.”

“We’re your team, Harry.” Cho looked at him evenly, one leg crossed over the other, her foot tapping in the air to some unheard beat. The use of his name penetrated; for most of the Aurors, including those he’d gone to school with for years, it usually seemed unacceptable these days to address him by his first name while he wore Auror robes. “We care about you.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”

Harry nodded. “There’s a lot going on.”

Cho huffed a laugh, lips curling to one side. “A bit.” She hesitated. “Did you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to say,” he told her, softening. And really, there wasn’t. Hermione’s concerned diagnostics had shown nothing, nor had his repeated trips to St. Mungo’s for official checks. For now, the official line was that a foreign potion was affecting his system in a way that didn’t seem inherently harmful. At her insistence, he’d kept Hermione apprised of his dreams. He just couldn't bring himself to describe the exact nature of them:

 _Cool hands slid over his hips, a chest coming to glue to his back._ Harry leaned against him; he didn’t stop dancing, sweaty hair slipping between his glasses and eyes. He swiped it away with an impatient gesture. Shaky breath warmed the side of his throat, a whisper he couldn’t hear above the pounding bass of the music. He tipped his head back to rest against the bony jut of a shoulder, a mouth sliding hot against his ear.

It was Draco, of course, Harry thought, when he his mind gentled from its flurry and he got his bearings. He’d been gone for two years, but Harry would recognise his touch anywhere — the apologetic grip of his hands, the press of his fingertips to the front of Harry’s hipbones, drawing him back. He even _smelled_ the s—

And: 

[_The warcry, loud and piercing, broke from Harry’s throat_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13793571) He allowed his momentum to carry him forward and saw the throngs of the— the D.A they were called here, rushing forth. Their bloody swords slashed their way through Queen Dolores’s army. 

_God, not that bitch again,_ Harry thought with an inhumane growl. He saw a flash of platinum hair pulled back with a tie, the glint of aged armour over Draco’s skinny shoulders as he surged past Harry. And though they were weakened, though they were tired and hungry, Draco was _there_ , everyone was, and Harry knew they would win. Knew they could do _anything_.

He saw the soldier coming in low, swinging his sword in a round swoop to undercut Draco’s legs. Draco jumped, ducking and rolling; he turned fluidly with a flashing, furious grin, his opponent's blood soaking into the slick grass beneath them. He didn’t need Harry’s help — not now, not anymore — but another soldier was heading Draco’s way, so Harry called his name over the din of clashing metal—

And:

 _“Mum, I know you don’t like his parents — I don’t either, alright?”_ Harry took in his mother’s worried gaze, and how she gripped her hands together the way she had when he’d been Seeker for Slytherin and had to fly out of sight, on lookout for the Snitch. “But you like _him_. Do we have to argue about this?”

“It’s not an argument.” She bit her lip, and… Merlin, she was so pretty, the part of Harry that had never got to know her _ached_ , wanting to reach through the Floo and hug her. But that wasn’t for him to do. “Although I wouldn’t say I _like_ him.”

“Don’t echo Dad,” Harry said with a snort. Lily laughed, head tilting back. 

“It’s just… The stones will need to be re-set,” she said hesitantly. “Your grandfather had thicker fingers than Draco. But...of course. It’s yours if you want it.” Her voice dropped pointedly. “Even though it’s unrealistic to think that a school romance could last.”

“It’s lasted for six years, and we’re no longer in school.” Harry grinned. “But I’ll be sure to tell Dad you said th—”

Cho’s hand in front of his face startled him. Jarred, Harry blinked at her, memories fading into the back of his mind. Her face was pinched. “Are you okay?”

Harry pressed his fingers to his lids under his glasses. “Yeah. I should get more sleep, like you said.”

“Maybe you should take off early,” she suggested. Her mouth quirked. “And I could, too; I have a date tonight. Sign my forms.”

Harry rolled his eyes and grabbed a self-inking quill, signing her forms with an exaggerated flourish. He pushed the file back across his desk to her. “Go ahead, then. I won’t tell anyone if you won’t. We’re overstaffed today, anyway. Just keep your pin on you.”

“Thanks,” she said, smiling. “We’re all very glad you got promoted, and will be organising a parade in your honour.”

“Not another one, please,” he said plaintively, earning a laugh. She stood and gave a mock salute with the tips of two fingers, the sharp scrutiny in her gaze disappearing completely when he smiled back and re-opened the folder on his desk. “Get _out_ , or I’m changing my mind.”

Cho hastened away, laughter echoing in her wake. Harry forced himself to look down at the spread of parchment in the folder, his grin fading. 

_Name: Draco Lucius Malfoy_  
Born: 5 June, 1980  
Attended: Hogwarts  
House: Slytherin  
O.W.L.s: Outstanding in Transfiguration, Potions, Charms. Exceeds Expectations in Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Herbology.  
N.E.W.T’s: Outstanding in Transfiguration, Potions, Ancient Potions, Obscure Potions, Herbology, Charms, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Legilimency, Occlumency. Exceeds Expectations in Defense Against the Dark Arts. (y. 2000)  
Wand:  
**Former:** Hawthorn, unicorn hair, 10”, reasonably springy. Disarmed by Harry Potter in Malfoy Manor, spring of 1998. Used by Harry Potter to defeat Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts, May 2, 1998. Currently under display glass in Ministry atrium.  
Elder wand: [details redacted] Briefly mastered, never used. Location unknown.  
**Current:** Walnut, unicorn hair, 10 ¼”, fairly pliant.  
Marital Status: Unmarried.  
Employment: Level Nine, Ministry of Magic. [details redacted]  
Notable: Dark Mark taken at age of sixteen; tried and sentenced to six months house arrest; monetary reparations made in the winter of… 

Harry slapped the file closed, unable to bear another moment Malfoy’s serious demeanor as it shifted into his trademark smirk in his attached Ministry identification photo. The picture twisted on a loop like they all did, and it was _doing_ things to Harry’s head: at first the smirk was smug, but the more he saw it, the more it softened with pride, like so many of the new Aurors taking their first ID photos. Accomplishment, surprise. Even a bit of wonder.

He rubbed at his temples and cursed under his breath, tamping down his rising fury at being in this predicament. He had no idea why or how dreaming of Malfoy was supposed to _help_ him, but Hermione’s comment about how fairies were tricksters stood sharp in his mind. He reminded himself again that he’d lived his formative years with visions of Voldemort in his head — he could withstand a trick or two. 

Opening the next file, Harry scanned what he practically had memorised at this point.

_Name: Hugo Barclay_  
Born: 30 December, 1943  
Attended: Hogwarts  
House: Slytherin  
O.W.L.’s: Outstanding in Creature Studies, Arithmancy; Exceeds Expectations in Ancient Runes, Transfiguration.  
N.E.W.T.’s: Exceeds Expectations in Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Transfiguration.  
Wand: Ash, thestral hair, 11”, moderately rigid.  
Marital Status: Widowed.  
Employment: Gringott’s Bank (1978-2001).  
Notable: Currently under Healer care at St. Mungo's… 

“New case?” 

Harry looked up as Ron ambled in, then threw himself down on their shared sofa with enough force it was a miracle it didn't collapse. 

Ron pulled a face. “Going over Barclay's file again,” he admitted. 

“Sorry there's not more to it. I'm going to Gringott’s tomorrow to see if I can find more, but it turns out even people who deal with fairies can be exceedingly uninteresting.”

Harry snorted. “Thanks. Did you check out the break in?” 

Ron rolled his eyes and nodded. “I think it was one of their kids,” he said. “There was a whole potions cabinet left untouched, but most of their magical liquor was gone, and a set of earrings that might fetch a price on Knockturn; Mrs Dowd said she'd left them in her jewelry box, and she has a lot of costume stuff in there, but none of it was missing. I'm just waiting on their kid’s files to come in.”

“How is it with Boyd?” Harry asked. 

“He's good.” Ron shrugged and slanted him a smile. “He's not you, though.”

“Lucky him,” Harry said after a second, returning Ron's smile. Ron laughed.

“How're you feeling?” he asked tentatively.

Harry sighed and glanced at the clock. If desk duty was good for anything, it was making sure his paperwork was done relatively quickly — after catching up on the backlog of it, the first two days — which left him with a lot of time on his hands. He considered visiting Mungo’s to check on the progress of Mr Barclay but didn’t want to irritate the Healers too often, in case they decided not to live up to their promise to contact him when Barclay woke. 

“Bored. I think I'm going to give Robards another try.” Harry chewed his lip, debating.

“You think he'll reconsider?” Ron asked doubtfully, sitting up. 

“Can't hurt to ask.” Harry set the files into his desk and stood, stretching and neatening his desk a flick of with his wand. He was sick of not being able to participate in field work, and what were they going to do for asking: fire him? 

That thought in mind, he waved to Ron and headed to the lifts, buoyed by Ron’s hopeful face. Robards could usually be found in the Minister’s office at end of day, and if he made his case — perhaps partnering with Ron, each and every time he went out — he might make some headway. 

When the lift opened, he waited for the occupants to vacate, tossing weak smiles at those who paid enough attention to recognise him before stepping in and pressing his back to the wall. His stomach rumbled and he placed his palm against it, mouth tightening; the enticing scent of heavily herbed chicken wafted over from the canteen two hallways down. He hesitated, one arm on the gate to the lift.

“Hold the door!”

Harry dropped his arm, shooting it out again when the doors began to close. Malfoy slipped in beside him, eyes narrowed sharply. Harry stared.

“While I appreciate the last second decision _not_ to exclude me from the lift, are you planning on letting the doors close any time soon?” Malfoy ducked his head under the strap of his messenger bag, settling it over his shoulder comfortably. His hair ruffled, and he reached up to smooth it back into place. Harry dropped his arm again.

“Hey.”

“Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Harry mocked. 

His tongue felt thick. He hadn't seen Malfoy since he'd begun dreaming about him in earnest. And he looked...Good. Disturbingly so. Though his robes were grey and rather shapeless, falling in a loose drape from his waist to the tops of his Oxfords, they split up the centre to reveal the hint of navy trousers and were fitted around the shoulders and chest, accentuating slender muscle. Malfoy leaned against the side of the lift and tilted his head. His eyes were curious, and Harry wondered briefly if he was going mad, or if the dreams had skewed his perception of Malfoy; he’d never seen Malfoy look at him like that, grey gaze soft and wide. 

“What?”

Malfoy’s baffling expression vanished, schooling into one of disinterest. “You look like shit.”

Harry felt like it, too, but he didn’t think it would be helpful to admit. “Haven’t eaten.”

“Ah, yes. Must remember your calorie intake for all of those many difficult hours of desk sitting.” Malfoy smirked.

“How d’you know about that?” he asked, and promptly wanted to bite his own tongue. His stomach cramped, and he pressed harder against it. The sound of his heart drowned out the ding of the lift as it rolled past each floor; the back of his neck felt damp.

Malfoy shrugged. “Who doesn’t?” His brows drew together. “Potter?”

“No,” Harry blurted, holding up his free hand. A strange euphoria unwound inside him and his unsteadiness increased. Malfoy slipped his wand out of his robes carefully, slowly, angling it toward Harry like he was a rabid werewolf likely to attack at one wrong gesture. “ _No_ ,” he said again, unsure what he was objecting to.

“Potter, I think you need some help,” Malfoy murmured, taking a step closer. Harry tightened his stance against the back wall of the lift, turning his face away. The world flashed like the lights on the tube after midnight, dark and bright, momentary spots of colour. 

“Don’t,” Harry said, a split second before Malfoy’s hand touched his wrist, thumb covering his pulse. Harry heard a sound, heightened pain or pleasure or both, wrenching from his own throat, and the lift vanished around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magpie_fngrl's works referenced in this chapter:
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> [How To Court Your Husband](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13706082)
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> [The Prize](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582470)
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> [ _The Rightful Heir_ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13793571)


	2. Chapter 2

The world shivered, **blinked** , the scent of herbed chicken and Malfoy’s sharp cologne on the back of his tongue fading into one of sweat and beer, of warm bodies in a crowded room.

Malfoy snorted. “Potter? Am I _boring_ you?” he said with a small sneer that didn’t seem remotely like the haughty eyebrow raise Harry’d grown accustomed to. He waved a hand in front of Harry’s face, grey eyes bright.”You’ve had too much,” he said.

“I have not,” Harry argued automatically, hand covering Malfoy’s as he reached to pull Harry’s beer away. The touch lingered and he looked down at their hands when Malfoy’s breath hitched, when he spread his fingers around the bottle to allow Harry’s to slide between them. 

“Are you sure?” Malfoy asked, lower. He glanced around, finally pulling his hand out from under Harry’s. He shifted in his seat, and Harry noted the Auror robes they both wore, though Malfoy wasn’t an Auror — except that… here, he was. Malfoy’s robes hung open to reveal his clothing underneath, Auror-issue trousers and a plain white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, though Malfoy was too formal to go around in casual-wear — except that, here, he... wasn’t.

There was a small lovebite above the hollow of his throat, and Harry wanted to lick it.

“I’m sure,” he said. His cock was half-hard; he suspected it had been that way for awhile. He widened his legs when it twitched and lengthened a bit more against his thigh. 

“Good,” Malfoy said. “Wouldn’t want you to be unable to be of...service,” he added lightly, a mischievous curl to his lip. “In case we get called in again, you know.”

“Have I ever been?” Harry wondered aloud, idly taking another pull from his drink. He had just been in the lift, Malfoy’s fingers warm on his pulse point, his wand glowing. Malfoy didn't even like him. They could barely get through a drink together. But here, that wasn’t true; at least, not all of it. In fact, when Harry let himself think on it for a second, his mind furnished him with details of their relationship, pleasant memories of the last few years. Malfoy was a good mate and a good partner — a good bit more, even, when their adrenaline was high after closing a case, and they had _just enough_ to drink. 

“Well, fuck, Potter.” Malfoy smirked. “If you listen to Ginevra…”

“That was _once_ , and I’d just been _hexed_ ,” Harry said irritably, kicking Malfoy in the shin with his boot when he laughed. He smiled, the buzz of alcohol numbing him pleasantly, more charmed by the warmth of Malfoy’s chuckle than he wanted to admit. “Need me to prove it?”

“Think I’m ready, yeah.” Malfoy set down his drink and leaned in, breath hot and rich with liquor. “Might’ve got myself ready in the loo fifteen minutes ago, actually.”

Oh _god_. Harry’s cock took a leap of delight in his trousers, plumping to full hardness so quickly it almost _hurt._ He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from pulling Malfoy closer, in front of everyone. “You didn’t.”

“May have.”

“‘S’my turn, I thought,” Harry said.

“Keeping track?” Malfoy waggled his eyebrows. Shrugged. “I was in the mood.” He turned on his barstool to face away from the room and subtly reached down to palm his own cock. “Do you have a problem with it?”

“Do you have a problem being eaten open?” Harry countered under his breath, unbearably turned on. The words slipped from his mouth as though he were the sort who was good at dirty talk; he supposed he was, here, judging by the way Malfoy’s face reddened, though his expression only flickered for a bare instant. Harry liked being able to do that to him — make him drop his guard for however short a time. He knew none of this was _his_ , that it was a dream or a potion or a spell, but he… wanted Malfoy, and soon. Wanted him and _wanted_ him; wanted to take him apart and leave his hair a tousled, tangled mess, leave him heaving for breath and wet and trembling and mumbling Harry’s first name and…

Jesus, this was _so fucked up_.

“I can be at your place in ten. Try not to get started without me,” Malfoy murmured out of the corner of his mouth. He flicked his fingers dismissively. Louder, he said, “Don’t piss yourself on your way home, Potter.”

Harry stood from the barstool, taking care to brush the swell of his cock against Malfoy’s hip. “Good work tonight, Malfoy.” He clapped him on the shoulder, stroked a thumb over the bare skin at the nape of his neck. Malfoy shivered a little and glared balefully at him. 

Harry grinned and picked his way through the crowded tables. He waved at Ron and Hermione, nestled together in a corner booth. Ron glanced at Malfoy and rolled his eyes, leaning down to whisper in Hermione’s ear. Her mouth turned up in an amused smile. She looked meaningfully at Harry, and he remembered: She was the one who suggested Malfoy might be attracted to him in the first place, back when they’d got into yet _another_ fight during Auror training.

Harry contemplated the lunacy of it as the queue for the pub’s Floo grew shorter. Draco Malfoy, of all people, for all his recent determination to let bygones go, showing up everywhere he dreamed.

But it didn't seem to _matter_ now, here. He took a handful of Floo powder and ducked his head as he climbed into the hearth. He turned around, the smile already widening on his face when he saw Malfoy watching him, hooded eyes dark with promise. Malfoy lounged against the bar lazily, one ankle propped on his knee. He licked his upper lip, a quick flash of pink. Harry’s cock throbbed and he suddenly wasn’t be too sure that he’d be able to get through the next ten or so minutes without ‘starting,’ as Malfoy said. 

He cleared his throat and threw down his powder. “Harry Potter’s.”

***

Harry jerked to a sit, Hermione’s face blurring in front of him until she passed over his glasses. He swiped a hand against his damp face and shoved them on, looking around. Ron sat in a visitor’s chair, freckles standing out sharply against the paleness of his face, mouth creased on each side with plain disapproval.

“Was it Malfoy?” Ron demanded.

“What?” Harry grabbed for the glass of water on the stand next to his cot; his hand shook and he knocked it over. “Fuck.”

Wordlessly, Hermione cleaned up the mess and refilled the glass, handing it to him. Harry guzzled it, needing something to wash away the acidic bitterness on his tongue, needing something — anything — to start filling up the hollowness of his stomach. 

Ron exhaled and clarified. “Did Malfoy do something to you?” 

“Oh.” Harry swallowed. “No. No, of course not.”

“I told you,” Hermione murmured. Ron huffed and sat back.

“Well, you can imagine what it looks like when you’re not moving and look practically _dead_ , and he’s got a wand on you,” Ron said resentfully. “Not that he would explain. Said he didn’t know.”

“What _did_ happen, Harry?” Hermione asked. Her mouth pursed. “Was it the dreams again?” 

At Harry’s silence, she sighed and headed to stand at Ron’s side. She pressed a hand to the back of his neck, Ron curling an arm around her waist. They both seemed to relax slightly at the contact, some subtle tension disappearing at the reminder of each other’s physicality. Harry swallowed and shook his head.

“They're just… Dreams.”

“This is the second time you've fallen unconscious,” Hermione pointed out. “If they were just dreams, do you think they’d be getting worse?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Frustrated, Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek. Below him, the cot was too soft, or too hard, or too… itchy. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to roll the knots out of his shoulders. Already knowing the answer, he asked, “Did the Healers find anything?”

Hermione shook her head. “An accelerated metabolism rate.” 

“Were you a prince again?” Ron said, face easing into a smile. Hermione batted him lightly on the shoulder, mouth ticking up to the side. 

“I… I need to go,” Harry said. “I need to go home.”

“Oi!” Ron sat up again, eyes popping. “No!”

Hermione sucked in a breath, countenance shifting from one of patient concern to real distress. “Harry, you can't. Hasn't it occurred to you that the potion is affecting your mental state to deteriorate slowly? She could have cursed you to— to—”

“Well, it has now.” Harry rubbed his face, frowning, the buzz in his head growing louder. “I have to go,” Harry said again; they seemed like the only words he knew — his _bones_ ached with the need to get home, every nerve rattling around inside of him insisting on being in his own bed. He felt oddly unfettered to the one he was in, as if he might disappear from it any minute. He threw the thin covers off himself and shakily Summoned his boots from where they rested at the foot of his bed, holding them close rather than putting them on. 

“Harry, you need to _talk_ to us.” Hermione approached him, Ron standing at her back. It hurt, that they were so worried, but there was nothing to be done. “Let us come with you. We’ll eat—” Harry groaned, and her face twisted with worry, “and you can explain what’s… what’s happening. I can… I can find you the help you—”

“Later. I— I promise,” Harry got out hoarsely. He held his wand tight, praying it didn’t snap under the force of his grip. He closed his eyes, imagining his own bed.

Ron called out, “Harry, you can't—!” just as the wards of the hospital screeched, bowing against him in resistance, but he pushed harder through them and Apparated home.

Harry stumbled into his bed, relief consuming him despite the pain still gnawing at his belly. He curled into a foetal position on his side, hugging his knees to his chest, rocking gently, and closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, the world had steadied, grown sharper, the wobbly uncertainty of it snapping into bright focus. Hazy blue sunlight spilled in through the half-parted curtains, indicating the passage of time; early morning, and he'd had no dreams. The salty aroma of freshly cooked bacon flooded his mouth with saliva, clearing away the already fading remnants of roiling nausea. With some effort, he pushed himself up as Kreacher walked slowly into the room, levitating a tray behind himself.

“Master has woken,” Kreacher said evenly. He didn’t meet Harry’s eyes.

“I did,” Harry said. His voice shook. He grabbed for the tray and set it down: a full fry-up, coffee and juice on the side. “Thank you.”

“Kreacher is keeping busy,” he said as Harry tucked in. He stuffed two thick pieces of bacon into his mouth, barely pausing to chew before he swallowed. “Master was gone again on his travels.”

Scooping up some potatoes with his fingers and sucking them into his mouth, Harry said, “You knew I’d need to eat. How?”

Kreacher hesitated; he tugged on one ear. “Kreacher knew,” he said, sounding baffled. His ears drooped. “Just as Kreacher knows the Magic surrounding Master Harry is fighting to tempt him away.” 

Stilling, fork halfway to his mouth, Harry said, “A fairy is playing a trick on me.” 

Kreacher shook his head, solemn in a way Harry had seldom seen. “Master Harry does not see what Grimmauld Place sees — how Master is gone and gone and gone, far away where Kreacher cannot serve him. Master Harry leaves, and Grimmauld Place and Kreacher mourn for him like our good Master Regulus, like Mistress Black, but he is gone and we are still _his_ , so death has not come.” Harry opened his mouth to quiz him further but Kreacher shook his head. “Kreacher is knowing many things, but no more than that.”

“Oh.” Hope plummeted in Harry’s chest against the rising sensation of fear as Kreacher wandered out without another word. Harry set it aside after a beat and took a bite of beans, then another and another. He felt ravenous, as desperate for calories as though he’d just duelled for hours or Apparated across a continent. He hunched over his plate, greedily consuming first the beans, then his eggs and tomatoes and toast, mushrooms and bacon and sausage and potatoes, his mind swamped with blurry images of pressing Malfoy into the wall — that very wall across from him, next to the wardrobe — their hands roving over each other with eager familiarity. 

Their affair had been going on for a year, perhaps, as Aurors — whereas as a Prince, they had been newly married, and were still learning each other. In the club, Malfoy returning after having gone away again, and when talking to his mother, Harry had been with Malfoy for years, practically since having been placed in Slytherin — first as best mates, their relationship evolving only later into something that surprised no one. On the ship, he had been with Malfoy for... longer. The name “Riddle,” issued so calmly from Ron, burst into Harry’s mind, and he tried to follow the thread of it, to figure out what it _meant_ but there was nothing but a void when he attempted to see beyond the thoughts and memories he’d learned in the moment. 

Harry set down his fork with a heavy clink against the porcelain plates Kreacher preferred to serve him on and, at the sound, looked down nervously. His plate was empty; he’d even apparently sopped up the runny egg yolk with his toast. It was much more than he ever ate these days now that the threat of childhood starvation no longer loomed, more even than he’d taken to eating lately since ingesting the potion. But his hands and racing heart felt steadier, his mind more clear. He took the opportunity and strung together the facts:

In each of his dreams, he’d been… _with_ someone. With Malfoy.

Kreacher said he truly was gone.

Fairies were tricksters.

Taking the instances one by one, Harry had focused on the confusion of each event, on what his subconscious might be trying to tell him. Disconcerting though it was to see Malfoy — especially in such contexts — he’d long been a staple in Harry’s life, and it hadn’t occurred to him it could _mean_ something. He wanted to get along better? He’d already come to that conclusion without the potion. He found Malfoy attractive? That part came as little surprise, though he'd been able to overlook it until recently. None of it made any sense.

Unless… Unless it was all _real_ , like Kreacher said. 

Well, fuck.

Harry Banished his tray back to the kitchen and stood. His bones creaked and his muscles twinged — whether from how long he'd been prone or the sex he couldn’t remember having, he couldn’t be sure. He knelt in front of the Floo and Firecalled Ron and Hermione. After a moment, Hermione’s face appeared, her hair like a cloud around bare shoulders. Ron peeked through as well, his face a twist of consternation. 

“She said you’d come to your senses but I didn't expect it this early in the morning,” he groused. “We were in bed.” 

“Sleeping!” Hermione’s face pinked up; she shifted away until she was only visible to her collarbone, and Harry bit back a wild snort of laughter. She bit her lip. As if they needed an excuse for not being there, she said, “Kreacher told us you’d got home, but you warded us against Grimmauld Place.” 

Had he? Harry couldn't remember.

“Sorry. _Really,_ ” he said, apologising with feeling for both transgressions. Ron flipped him two fingers over her shoulder, and Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“What is it, Harry? Did you have another dream?”

“No,” he said. “But I don't… I don't think they're just dreams; I think they're real. Kreacher said....” He swallowed thickly. The words caught on his tongue, slow and muddy when he tried to explain further. He gripped the edges of the fireplace, suddenly dizzy, searching for words. “Malfoy’s in them,” he managed, sagging.

“Harry?” Hermione disappeared, returning with a fluffy dressing robe draped over her shoulders. “Move aside,” she said implacably. “I’m coming through.”

***

“This is a bad idea,” Harry muttered, striding alongside Hermione’s purposeful, quick-stepping march.

“It’s _my_ idea; I don’t _have_ bad ideas,” she told him, keeping her voice low. Something about level nine encouraged speaking in respectful whispers; it could have been the steady hum of unsettling magic slipping over his skin, or the black walls and dimly-lit blue flames flickering eerie shadows, but Harry suspected the Unspeakables simply charmed it that way. He still didn't like coming here. 

“He’s not going to want to help,” Harry insisted anyway. “We shouldn't get him involved.”

“He already is, if you're right,” Hermione said firmly. Harry scoffed under his breath and she halted, stopping him in his tracks with one hand. Her face was blanched and serious, her natural curiosity now edged out by tightly-reined fear. “Seriously, Harry. I know you still have issues with Malfoy, but if whatever is going on with you involves him, he should be pulled in on it.” Harry blinked, processing that. Hermione nodded and continued. “Malfoy is _smart._ That’s not a word I use lightly.”

“No, I know,” he said when she waited for him to respond.

She nodded again. “Good. Then you’ll appreciate knowing that, as well as being wherever it is you… go,” she said, nose wrinkling delicately, her displeasure over his lack of great detail apparent, “he’ll also at least know where we should direct our enquiries. Malfoy is _exactly_ who we should be talking to.”

“He’s not going to want to help,” he said again. His stomach felt loaded with rocks as they resumed walking. Harry, longer-legged, deliberately fell behind her and stared at the hem of her grey robes. 

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. She pulled her wand out and tapped a handleless door with a complicated wand flourish, quirking him a small smile when he drew his eyes up. “Like Gringott’s,” she said, their code for any policy or security measure that had been changed in the wake of their activities during the war. Harry’s return smile faded almost instantly as the door creaked open to reveal a long, empty room with a giant tank in the middle. 

“No,” he said, drawing back in revulsion. He took a step in front of her to bar her way.

Hermione huffed and shoved him aside; she rolled her eyes. “Don’t do that again,” she snapped. More gently, eyes settling on him, she said, “Ron’s fine with it. Just…” She grimaced. “Don’t reach into it.”

Harry followed her after a beat, glancing at the pearlescent brains swimming dreamily in the tank, beautiful and potentially deadly. None of the desks surrounding it were occupied but Harry supposed that didn’t matter as Hermione wove through them, unerringly leading them to a small, unmarked door off the side of the room. She tapped on it twice, dropping her fist when it opened to reveal Malfoy. His preoccupied expression melted into one of confusion upon seeing her, and promptly into wary disdain when he noticed Harry. 

“Potter,” he greeted flatly. To Hermione, he said, “I’d hoped you wouldn’t be needing my services again after—”

“We don't. I don't,” Harry interrupted. “That’s not why—”

“It is,” Hermione said tersely. She curled a hand around his elbow, shoving him past Malfoy, who looked startled. She followed him in and shut the door behind them. “The Ministry potions inspectors are still unable to figure out was in that potion, Mungo’s can’t even verify something is _wrong_ with you, the coven in Ireland is refusing to speak with our envoys, and Malfoy _is_ involved, _whether you like it or not_ ” she practically growled. “He might know where to start.”

Harry looked around to buy some time. What he’d assumed to be an office of some sort was actually a laboratory filled with potion stations, each encapsulated by a shimmering shield or stasis charm, keeping the fumes separate. He sniffed discreetly but couldn’t smell them. Couldn’t smell anything, in fact, except the woodsy notes of Malfoy’s aftershave, which lingered in the air as Malfoy moved away to retrieve his Unspeakable robes from the back of a chair and shrug them on. He wore a white button-down — _Like last night,_ Harry’s mind whispered insidiously — with a navy and silver patterned tie loosened at his collar. His hair was rumpled and his sleeves were folded up to his elbows, and Harry caught the flash of dark ink against the pale skin of his forearm before Malfoy covered himself. He left his robes comfortably open and when Harry looked up, Malfoy’s narrow jaw had gone tight, his eyes as hard as stones. 

Harry looked away. He cleared the strange clog in this throat with a swallow and focussed on studying the room instead, which was… surprising, to say the least, in its hominess. Malfoy had a small, worn beige sofa tucked away from the main part of the lab lab, shoved in a corner near his desk, and there was a Snitch hovering above it, as though Malfoy had been playing with it only moments ago. He even had a Quidditch calendar Spell-o-taped to the wall above his desk, as if he were any normal bloke.

“So sure of my abilities?” Malfoy asked Hermione at last, seemingly determined to ignore Harry. It sounded snide, but Harry, still too surprised by both what Hermione had said and Malfoy’s relaxed appearance and lab looked at him sharply, and noticed a flicker of...something he couldn’t quite place.

Uncertainty, maybe. He was startled to _recognise_ that look, could even remember when he realised what it was: after the first hard kiss Harry pressed against Malfoy’s mouth, more to shut him up than to follow Hermione’s advice in the place where they were both Aurors, where they were friends and more. He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck; it was hot, under his palm.

“Yes,” Hermione said blithely. 

Malfoy blinked. “Oh. Alright then.” He gestured to the sofa, Summoning the Snitch and tucking it into his pocket before sitting down at his desk. An absently sly smile tilted the corner of his mouth. “I assume you have the proper paperwork?”

Hermione smiled back, a touch irritably. “You should assume that I’m going to make supervisor of Brain and Time soon and will be able to assign you to whatever I like when the need arises,” she said lightly. Harry shut his gaping mouth with a click of teeth when Malfoy snorted.

“Don’t give away too many of our secrets, Granger,” he said, ignoring her last.

Glancing at Harry, she shrugged. “I’m not Silenced about my own work within our offices; it’s simply been safer for him not to know until now.”

“I knew you were an Unspeakable,” Harry said uneasily. Hermione patted his leg like someone would the head of a child, shushing him. Harry frowned.

“Well, will you help or not?”

Malfoy heaved a put-upon sigh, seeming every inch the spoiled eleven-year-old Harry had met over a decade prior. Except for the lanky height, and the lean muscles, and the relaxed, silky sweep of his flaxen hair, almost down to his jaw. Except for the sudden, inexplicable _draw_ that Harry felt toward him, a softer, tremulous kind of curiosity replacing the hard nugget of irritation that had been Harry’s comforting default for years. He realised he felt, inexplicably, like he could breathe again without struggling for air — his whole centre of balance had stabilised since entering the room.

Shit.

“I suppose. Apparently I'm ‘involved,’” he said with the barest lilt of question to his voice. He pulled the Snitch back out of his pocket and stroked along a wing with one finger. _Might’ve got myself ready in the loo fifteen minutes ago, actually._

Harry swallowed.

“Serves me right, for helping yesterday. Gives you lot ideas,” Malfoy continued. He paused, gaze turning wily. “I’ll do it. But I want something.”

Hermione didn’t bat an eyelash. “I assumed you would. What.”

“I don’t know yet.” Malfoy shrugged. “I’d like a favour to be utilised when I need it. As you said, you’re favoured to make supervisor.” To his credit, he sounded more resigned than bitter. 

“Done,” she said simply. Harry glanced at her, startled; she socialised as much as anyone on pub nights, but despite her words earlier, he knew she’d never be Malfoy’s biggest fan. Her eyes were soft as she looked back at him. He took her hand and squeezed it. 

“Hermione,” he said, unaccountably touched.

“You’re our family, Harry,” she said, squeezing his hand back as though her immediate concession to Malfoy meant nothing in the face of that.

Harry nodded, dropping his hand when Malfoy cleared his throat. “As fascinating and arousing as this glimpse into the polyamorous lifestyle of the Golden Three is,” he drawled, “perhaps we can move on to other matters now. You mentioned a potion? Is it the one he ingested?”

“You think _that_ was an arousing glimpse of our lifestyle?” Harry snorted as Hermione drew out a clear, thimble-sized vial from the inside of her cloak: a potion sample, periwinkle shot through with scarlet. “You should really see us on Friday nights.”

Hermione coughed a laugh; her eyes sparkled with amusement. She shook her head with a badly hidden grin and passed the vial over. Harry hummed, glancing at Malfoy, who made a small, irritated sound. His ears were pink under the shiny sheet of his hair — whether from embarrassment, or annoyance at the parry, Harry couldn’t tell. 

“What happened?” Malfoy asked, studying the sample. He shot an indecipherable look at Harry, who flinched when Hermione dug her elbow into his side. “You mentioned fairies, so I'm assuming the kidnapping is related.”

“ _Tell him_ ,” she hissed when Harry didn’t immediately start talking. He glared at her with futile aggravation, but Hermione was channeling her SPEW-button-covered, fifteen-year-old self, and with a sigh he gave up and did as he was told. 

Keeping things as simple possible, Harry outlined the full series of events, starting from the scuffle on Diagon and Knockturn and then finishing with his realisation that his dreams were not, in fact, the workings of an overtired mind or fairy prank. He kept to the most salient points and didn't go into any detail about the dreams themselves, but Malfoy's eyes flicked back and forth from him to the potion several times. When Harry explained what the fairy had told him though, Malfoy’s gaze landed on him with uncomfortable scrutiny and stayed there until Harry had finished talking.

“It’s possible it’s nothing to do with the potion, you understand. If she touched you and made a decree before you took it,” was all Malfoy said, to Harry’s surprise. Harry nodded, and Malfoy tapped the vial with his thumbnail, deep in thought. To Hermione, he said, “The colouration of this is odd. The luminescence.”

She nodded. “ _And_ it’s already been tested for traces of startdust; it has none. Even more strangely, several of the potioneers perceive it with minute differences.”

Malfoy hummed, brows drawing together. “Get me the specs. And this isn’t enough. Not if you want me to do a full analysis of both the herbal properties and the magic.”

“How much do you need?” Hermione asked, taken aback. “The official potioneers are working on a lot of it. Shouldn’t the viscosity of it make its determination easier?”

“Mm. Usually, but with unknown magic, I’m likely going to use a bit of it to rule out some things. I’ll need at least a couple of ounces. Can you get that?”

“Yes,” she said. “How quickly can you get started?”

Malfoy stayed pointedly silent, the perfect arch of one brow rising expectantly. 

Hermione stood. “Oh. Okay, yes. I’ll have it back to you as soon as I can. Can you start on that in the meantime?”

“Yes.” Malfoy looked at the thick, glowing droplets. He sighed. 

“Thank you,” Hermione said with such heartfelt gratitude that Malfoy’s cheeks darkened to match his ears. He nodded to her briefly and began examining the vial again. Hermione touched Harry’s shoulder. “I won’t be long. Answer any questions he has, please.”

Harry scowled but bobbed his head. She looked at him a moment longer and took her leave, robes fluttering behind her. 

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic, Malfoy,” Harry said after Hermione was gone.

“Did I? I certainly didn’t mean to,” Malfoy muttered, eyes still firmly on the potion. “Aside from halting my own research to do this, I have to do it with _you_ at my side.” He frowned, finally looking up at Harry again, then smirked at whatever he saw on Harry’s face. He rubbed his chin with his forefinger. “Just so we're clear, she’s not my boss yet. I'm free to research as I like.”

“Okay.” Harry refrained from rolling his eyes.

“Which is why she was so quick to negotiate with me,” Malfoy pointed out, an edge of frustration in his voice. Harry gave him a bland smile, just to see if it would annoy him. Fortunately, at least that much was still true in his world — Malfoy’s jaw bunched satisfyingly. He let out a slow breath. 

“So, you're to answer my questions. I wonder what I could ask about that bare-bones account you just offered,” he said, waving the hand holding the Snitch, his smirk renewing. Harry forced himself not to react. But, like before, Malfoy didn’t go for the easy shot, though his lips tightened. He looked at the sample. “How do you know they're not just dreams, if that’s what you assumed to begin with? Other than your ridiculously large appetite. If I recall correctly, you've always been a bit…”

Harry’s ignored that. His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears. “People dream all the time; you don't expect it to be real when you're suddenly royalty, or…”

Malfoy frowned again, but this time he seemed intrigued. “Does it trigger a personality shift?”

“No. And yes.” Harry took his glasses off and rubbed at his face. He replaced them, mind on Hermione’s immediate concession of a favour to Malfoy, on the way Ron worried his lip as he’d explained his suspicions. “I’m… me, like I said. But somewhere else. Like… Fate’s changed my life, somehow. Hermione and Ron aren't always in them, except… I feel like they are.” He blew out a breath through his nostrils. “And so are you.”

“Me,” Malfoy said with a flat sort of laugh, as though waiting for Harry to deliver the punchline of a joke now that Hermione had left. Tension gathered in his body when Harry simply stared at him, throat working. The cords of Malfoy’s neck tightened; his shoulders shifted, coming up high near his ears before he visibly forced himself to relax them. He looked at Harry searchingly for a moment, and Harry felt that _tug_ in his belly again, warm and arousing. A memory of a different life. He glanced away. 

Softer, inquisitively, Malfoy said, “I was there.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s voice came out rough, and he cleared his throat.

“Alright. And who have you been?”

“ _Me_ ,” Harry said, exasperated. “I was _me_.”

“But not,” Malfoy deadpanned.

“Right.”

“Care to explain?” Malfoy rose from his chair with jerk of his chin. He rounded the desk and headed over to a long table with multiple, empty potion stations. “Honeysuckle, lemons, and doxy venom, right?” 

At Harry’s flabbergasted nod, Malfoy pulled his wand from the holster at his hip and flicked it, lighting a fire under a small silver cauldron, base ingredients floating over to him in glass bottles. Opening them deftly one by one and murmuring under his breath as the correct measurements poured themselves into the pot, he slanted a look at Harry, who couldn’t take his eyes off Malfoy’s quick, efficient motions. “Sometime today. You said you were royalty?”

“I was a prince. And a pirate,” Harry blurted, confused when Malfoy faltered and cursed under his breath, nearly dropping a small bottle of liquid gold. “And an Auror, but… in a different world, or something.”

“A prince and an Auror and a… pirate,” Malfoy said, stumbling over the last. Colour rose in his cheeks again. He pursed his lips, gaze riveted on his work, though it looked like he could do what he was doing blindfolded. “Yesterday, it appeared as a simple faint. You still haven't said what makes you so certain they're not fantasies. Though Granger bringing it to me speaks to her faith on the veracity of it.”

“My fantasies are more—” Harry broke off when Malfoy spared him a sharp look. “Grimmauld Place,” he said. “And Kreacher.” He fell silent as Malfoy uncapped the tiny vial Hermione had provided and, with great care, drew out a single droplet from inside to add to the mixture warming in front of him. Malfoy moved to the next empty station and began a repeat of setting up. 

“Why _does_ she think you can help? Apart from… knowing potions, apparently,” Harry said, indicating the room, “and being… involved. What do you _do_ , here, in Brain?”

“We call it Brain and Mind, usually,” Malfoy said, distracted. “You’d be surprised how abstract both of those words can be. We try to find links.”

“I see,” Harry said, though he really didn’t. “Very philosophical of you all.”

Malfoy smiled, a quick flash of even white teeth. “We’re smart here, Potter, or hadn’t you guessed? We eat philosophy for breakfast.”

“What do you eat for dinner, then?” 

“What?” Malfoy’s fingers stilled. 

Harry blinked, flushing as he belatedly ran the words over in his mind again. Yes, they definitely sounded like he was flirting. He shifted his eyes to the cauldron Malfoy had already started; it was bubbling. “Nothing. Just— Psychology, neuroscience, Wizarding history,” he said.

“Right,” Malfoy said before stiffly continuing what he’d been doing. “Well, a lot of the study here is connected. Love and Brain and Time. Planets and Death and Time. Brain and Death. Prophecy and Death and Love. Love and Death, et cetera. A few others that I’d be permanently Silenced for mentioning. I research perception; how we see things is important, you know. Or maybe you don’t,” he added with a tiny curl to his lip.

“I may not eat philosophy for any of my meals, but I’m not exactly thick.” Harry shoved his hands in his pockets defensively, thrown off by Malfoy’s snicker. “You study the way the brain links to the way we see things, and how that pertains to our surroundings.”

“In a nutshell, yes,” Malfoy said with another surprising smile. 

“So do you have a theory?”

“Of why you’re a prince and an Auror and…?” Malfoy moved onto the next station.

“Yeah.”

“Yes and no. Who was I in them?”

“Uh.” Harry licked his lips. “I only suspect you were in the first.” He stopped, struck again by the feel of a body beside his in his princely bed: tall, lean, warm. He shook it off. “I mean, I didn’t _see_ you there. But when I was a pirate, we were set up to meet. Ron referenced ‘Riddle’s men,’” he added quietly. Malfoy’s pause was shorter this time, and Harry went on, the words spilling out of him, “I’m pretty sure you were working with us, against them. Once I was in a club. Once, we had both been placed in Slytherin,” he said uneasily, “and were still… We still knew each other. You were an Auror too, in that place. We were partners, friends, having,” he swallowed, “a drink.”

“Friends?” Malfoy asked, flicking him another one of those bland glances, which still managed to feel crowded with a host of unsaid things. “Us?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought about trying to become an Auror once,” Malfoy murmured, not looking at him. He shook his head, scraping his hair into a short ponytail above his nape.

“Probably also thought of yourself as royalty, too.” 

“And was I also royalty in… that dream?” Malfoy asked. Harry didn’t respond — to be fair, he wasn’t unequivocally _certain_ — and Malfoy eyed him briefly. He turned back to task, levitating the last drop of potion into the third cauldron. He cast a last Shield bubble to surround it and stepped away. He Summoned a towel to wipe his immaculate hands on, then charmed them clean anyway. “Has it been every night?”

“Oh.” Harry joined him at the potion stations and leaned against the countertop. “No. The first happened right away, and since then it’s fairly frequent but not continuous. And only when I sleep. Until yesterday.” _Until you._

“You’ve not told all of this to Granger.” Malfoy adopted the same posture as Harry, crossing his legs in front of him as he leaned back against an opposite counter. “Weasley as well?”

“I have. Just not to… Not to the extent I told you,” Harry admitted, fighting a blush. He glared at the floor. “And there’s more.”

“Is there.”

“Yeah.” Harry chastised himself on his own silence but couldn't force the words out.

“Well.” To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy didn’t push. “I’ll need access to your medical files.”

“Fine,” Harry said with a relieved sigh.

“And a blood sample.”

“Whatever.”

“And I want to see it happen again.”

“What?” Harry leaned back instinctively, hand curling into a fist. “No. You don’t know how it affects me—”

“Exactly. I’d like to see.” Malfoy pursed his lips. “Ideally, you’d allow me access to your mind, so I can see what you’re seeing _as_ you’re seeing it, but—”

“No fucking way,” Harry said flatly. 

Malfoy chuckled — a sharp, snide sound. “Do you think the idea is any more pleasant for me, Potter? But one of the most powerful people in the wizarding world will owe me a favour — two, really — and I’m under no delusions she’s not going to make me earn it.”

Harry considered commenting on that bit about owing Malfoy a favour but suspected Malfoy might be trying to start a fight; if Harry offended him overtly, he could decide not to help. He held his tongue, pushing down the simmer of anger threatening to rise up, and headed back over to the sofa. Malfoy followed.

“I'm not exactly sure what precipitates it,” Harry explained curtly, sitting down. He rubbed his hands over the tops of his thighs. “Sleep, maybe. You want me to… nap?”

“Go ahead, if you need. Though you weren't asleep yesterday.” Malfoy propped himself on the edge of his desk, crossing his long legs in front of him. He crossed his arms, too, tilting his head expectantly, as though convinced he wouldn’t see anything.

And… shit. He _wouldn’t_ , Harry realised.

“I’ll still be _here,_ ” he said. “It’ll be just like yesterday. Even Kreacher only knew I was gone because his magic felt it.”

Looking more interested, Malfoy straightened. “Elf magic. I assumed you meant you’d disappeared at your home. That’s the problem with vague explanations.” He smirked. “Go ahead,” he said again. He conjured an old-fashioned pocket-watch, thumb rubbing over the etchings on the back. 

“I don’t even know if it’ll work.” Harry bit his lip. He cleared his throat, pushing the words out before he could stop himself. “Yesterday, it happened when you touched me.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened a little. “On your wrist.” He sat on the edge of his desk, one long leg dangling in an oddly casual pose, the other propped on the arm of the couch Harry sat on. He leaned over, face curious, voice going low. “Do you think it matters where?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. He licked his lips, breath coming faster. “I… I feel it now,” he muttered. “Dizzy. Like I can’t quite… concentrate.”

“Mmm. So let’s repeat yesterday. Hold out your wrist.”

Harry dutifully complied. Malfoy took it in one hand, cradling the back of it. Light fingertips danced up the lines on his palm thoughtfully. Harry scowled, opening his mouth to complain, but Malfoy’s eyes were narrowed in concentration as he skimmed Harry’s lifeline. 

“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘I know it like the grip of my own wand?’” He glanced up at Harry, whose vision blurred, affording him with two Malfoys, side by side, before he solidified again. Harry nodded. “There’s a Muggle phrase that’s similar. ‘I know it like I know my own hand.’”

Harry managed a faint smile. “I’m familiar.” His hand throbbed, little shocks of sensation jolting up his arm. “What about it?”

“Well, do you? Has your hand always looked like this?” Malfoy tilted his hand so Harry could see but didn’t release it. A cold shudder rippled through Harry as Malfoy traced the lines on his palm, identifying each under his breath. “Life...Heart...Fate…”

They were all… broken. Hundreds of visible cracks trailing from each of them into tiny branches that sprouted more. 

“No, that’s not how it’s always looked.” Harry gulped in some air, unnerved. “I’m...I feel sick. I think it’s going to… I think…”

Nothing happened. 

Malfoy chuckled after a minute or so had passed. “Well, that was impressive. What were you this time? Minister for Magic? A unicorn?”

Harry yanked his hand away, stomach roiling. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Mal—”

***

_”—foy?” Harry shifted, damp sheets tangled around his legs,_ immediately aware that the broken silence amped up the heavy awkwardness by about a thousand percent. Blood still roared faintly in his ears, a disconcerting sound that reminded him of swimming underwater. His cock throbbed with another aftershock of his orgasm, sweat cooling on his skin. He tugged the sheet up over his sticky groin.

“Yeah?” Malfoy’s voice sounded rough, dazed, uncomfortable as Harry felt, but also rich with satisfaction, the lassitude of his most recent climax turning it lazy. 

His most _recent_ climax, Harry thought, shocked. He resolutely kept his gaze on the ceiling and searched his thoughts, trembling a little when the memories smacked him, vivid and sharp. His tipsy fury at Malfoy’s needling him over his breakup with Gin; taking a swing at Malfoy in the alley outside the pub and laughing when Malfoy’s fist met his mouth; Malfoy’s wand drawn, the tip pressed under Harry’s chin. 

All of this followed promptly by his hand in Malfoy’s shirt, pulling him closer as Harry knocked his wand away, Malfoy’s body pressing him against the grotty brick when Harry tugged his head down. Their mouths sealing together, hot and wet and _violent_ , blood from his busted lip gushing bright over his taste buds, Malfoy’s teeth worrying the spot with a suck. His thigh, pressed between Harry’s legs as they stripped; Apparating, half-undressed, to Malfoy’s flat, hands frantic on each other. The sound of buttons pinging off in their hurry, of zips sliding down, of grunts and groans and ragged breath as Malfoy slid to his knees, taking Harry’s cock into his mouth, his tongue pressed flat and firm against his glans as his cheeks sharpened, storm-grey eyes open. Malfoy, turning him around, pressing his hands to the wall, his quiet “Hold still,” when he’d spread Harry’s cheeks and begun licking him there, _there,_ oh god, getting him good and wet and soft for his cock, Malfoy’d told him through muffled groans as he ate Harry out. And Harry being unable to hold still, even as the blush had risen, scorching, on his neck — no, he’d bucked back against Malfoy, ridden his face with small, broken cries of delight, knuckles curling against the designer paint on the wall of Malfoy’s parlour. 

A sob of pleasure, a hoarse, “I’m going to come,” and a movement behind him, a hand wrapped around the base of his lightly spurting prick to stave off his orgasm as he felt the slippery, round head of Malfoy’s cock start probing his swollen arsehole. His, “I’ve never—” quickly choked off when Malfoy’s hands tightened on his hips, the head of his cock pressing into him, _stretching_ him, and then a slower, more gentle slide, Malfoy’s breath hot against his neck. A kiss there, when the curls at Malfoy's groin pressed against Harry’s spread buttocks, the overwhelming pleasure-pain washing over him when Malfoy pulled back and slammed back in, no longer slow or gentle, but just as Harry _wanted_ it and hadn’t _known_. Rough handling, the way he touched himself when he wanked, Malfoy understanding the need to go _harder_ at his prick as he pounded into him with tiny “Uhhnn, uhhnn” sounds. The unfamiliar fullness of being fucked, so hot he couldn’t take it, made better and worse when Malfoy yanked his hips back and moaned his name, spilling into him, forcing Harry over the edge himself, staining Malfoy’s wall. 

Malfoy’s “We’re not done, Potter,” before Harry’s breath had even come back, fingers coming up to tweak his nipple and wrench a cry from him, spent cock already twitching again. A thrust — Malfoy hadn’t even gone soft — and a smoky, indolent “I bet you’d like a turn, wouldn’t—”

“Well?” Malfoy asked, irritated. “I assume you were about to say you needed to fuck off, right?”

“Um.” Harry pressed his hand against his chest, not wanting to be too obvious about the way the gush of memories affected him.

“It’s fine with me.” Malfoy yawned, but even that sounded measured. Harry forced himself to turn and look. “Get back to your Weaslette.” He smirked, still not facing Harry. “Oh, wait.”

Harry’s face burned. “Why is it so _funny_ to you?”

Malfoy hummed. He stretched out one arm over his head; his body was uncovered and one knee was crooked up, his flaccid cock resting against his thigh — and quite prettily too, Harry felt weird to note. It was a decadent pose, and if Harry wasn’t so sore and jittery, drunk from the most filthy sex he’d never imagined having, he’d have been on him again, wrapping those long legs around his hips, or maybe flipping Malfoy over; he’d not got to have him on his knees yet, and—

“Just is,” Malfoy said, interrupting his thoughts. “The Golden Couple; the newspapers all said so.” He slanted Harry a look. “Was it because you’re bent, then?”

“I’m not,” Harry said. Malfoy raised his brows, giving Harry a sort of pitying look. Harry huffed. “I mean, I _am_ , yeah. But I just… I like both.”

“Oh. Which better?” Malfoy asked idly.

_You_ Harry thought, shaken by it. “There are different things to like,” he settled on saying, which was also true, though after the last few hours he suspected he had a strong preference. “We just… stopped working, Gin and me. We never saw each other, with her travelling to games all the time.”

“Mm.” 

“Still don’t see why it’s funny. You of all people know that not everything you read in the papers about me is going to be true,” Harry said, a hot flare of resentment pitting in his belly.

Malfoy chuckled. “But I don’t feed them stories anymore,” he said practically, rolling to his side to face Harry. He fit both hands under his cheek on the pillow, looking utterly debauched, purpling hickeys strung over his throat. But he also looked… sweet, in the midst of his big white bed, tousled hair falling to one side. “Every time people write, it’s about how happy you are.” He made a face. “It’s really irritating.”

Harry rolled to face him, too. It felt odd to be naked with him when they weren’t touching; Harry could still feel the imprints of Malfoy’s teeth against his inner thigh, even as he wondered what Malfoy — _his_ Malfoy — was doing back at the lab. Their breath was warm in the cocoon of Malfoy’s draped bed, heating up the air between them, intimate and quiet in a way Harry had never experienced before. 

“I know,” he said. “She thought so, too.”

“Pressure, then?”

“A bit.”

“And now that there’s none?”

“I’m free to do as I like,” Harry said carefully, though that wasn’t really true. There would always be pressure, always be people following him. With a shiver of nerves, he wondered if he was saying the things _this_ Harry would say, because they felt so much like his own thoughts. 

“That’s promising,” Malfoy said.

“Is it?” Harry swallowed, meeting his gaze. Malfoy’s eyes darkened, shuttered. He shifted back, putting more space between them.

“Who doesn’t want to be free to do as they like?” Malfoy asked coolly. He gestured to his arm, something Harry had taken great pains to avoid looking at in the last few hours, like he wanted to prove something. “Not many of us are.”

Harry forced himself to look at the Mark. The war was years back, but… _over_ , and other than the way the dark ink drew the eye on Malfoy’s otherwise pristine body, it was just a symbol now, stirring nothing in him but sadness and a faint sense of distaste. He found he was smiling when he looked back up to find Malfoy’s gaze turbulent and confused at his ease, and Harry knew he was going to end up kissing the tightness off Malfoy’s brow, knew he would shag him again, sore though he was; maybe he’d make it slow this time, and—

“Potter,” Malfoy said, looking suddenly flustered. 

Harry smiled. “Malfoy…”

**Blink.**

The summons resonated throughout the cavernous chamber. Harry shivered, a brutal wave of nausea washing over him before fading almost instantaneously. He took in his surroundings.

The room was huge — a former ballroom, he thought. But it was cold and dim, had gone grey over time. There were sconces with low-burning flames in them, forbidding and almost cold, themselves. He sat on _another_ throne, plush with velvet-covered feathers, his fingers idly tapping the armrest. The clack of footsteps against the marble floors drew his attention. Malfoy stood before him, face devoid of emotion. He bowed low, forest green formal robes flourishing out. He looked as beautiful as he did untouchable.

“Yes, my Lord?”

_Christ, not again._

“Where’s Bella?” Harry asked, bored. He stopped, everything inside him drawing to a still, small point of fear. His scar burned hot on his forehead, but his face refused to twist with the pain of it— and why would it, he wondered? He’d learnt to control that years ago. “I need her services.”

_No. No, no, no, no, no, **no** —_

“She has gathered intel on the last surviving Weasley,” Malfoy said, no inflection to his voice. 

“Charlie?” Harry clutched at the armrests of his throne at the name slipping out, so easily, so… so _unperturbed_. Malfoy gave a short nod; he glanced at Harry’s whitening knuckles, brow knitting in a small frown. Harry loosened his grip. 

“Shouldn’t take her long,” he forced himself to continue. The smile on his face felt unnatural for its cruelty, but also… not. He swallowed. “Entertain me in the meantime.”

Finally, Malfoy’s countenance changed. He smiled, looking oddly pleased — relieved even, a light blush softening the sharpness of his face. He cleared his throat. “Here, my Lord? Should I clear the room?”

“No,” Harry ground out over the impulse to agree. “In my chambers.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose; his smile widened tentatively. Harry’s cock jerked at it. He felt the curl of something small and ugly in the pit of his stomach, a deliciously mean urge to _do_ it, to _have_ Malfoy, here in the middle of the ballroom of the home where he’d grown up well loved. There were people in the corner; he could keep them here, could use them to humiliate Malfoy, make them watch, make them—

“Now,” Harry gasped out. Malfoy looked alarmed, but he readily took the hand that Harry reached toward him. He let Harry hold onto him, guiding him swiftly through the darkened halls of Malfoy— no, _Potter_ Manor. It had been Potter Manor for years now.

Harry faltered when he spotted the giant snake coiled in front of his door; he resumed his steps, hissing tenderly to her. “ _Nagini, my dearest._ ” She slithered out of the way. Harry’s forehead broke out in a light sweat. He had to get out of there.

“My Lord?” Malfoy asked, shutting the door carefully when they were both in the room. His hands strayed to the buttons of his robes, sheened mother-of-pearl. He seemed almost… shy. “You haven’t requested... entertainment from me in over a month.”

“You’ve been useful elsewhere,” Harry heard himself say. The pain in his forehead was blinding now, but he ruthlessly pushed it back. _Mine,_ his mind snarled to the piece that lived inside that wanted to take control. It pushed back against him, sensing a weakness, demanding to be let out as was its right, but he mentally wrestled it into submission the way he had for years, since—

“The forest,” he said. Malfoy blinked, robes undone down to his stomach. He was bare beneath them. Harry clasped the locket around his neck; he found himself holding onto it tightly, clinging to it rather than yanking it off. He kept it closed against the push of magic swelling inside it determinedly.

“You want me to round up blood traitors for you to hunt in the forest?” Malfoy asked warily. His expression turned remote again, a flash of inexcusable hesitation in his eyes. Harry’s smile felt dark. He’d known Malfoy wasn’t enjoying himself, of course, but he was usually far more careful about showing it. He’d definitely have to—

***

Harry sat up, gagging. He wretched emptily into the basin held out, shaking off the hand that rested gently on the back of his head. _“No,_ don’t touch me,” he managed, panting, bending over the container again.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered.

_“Don’t,”_ Malfoy said, voice thready. The hand hovering above him moved away.

Harry sought his scar, going boneless when he touched it; it was just a scar now, like so many others. The lance of pain in it still echoed through him but was gone, a memory lifetimes apart from his own, as was the sibilant whisper in his head insisting that he open the locket — which was no longer dangling from around his neck, cold and pulsing with dark, heavy energy. 

He cursed under his breath and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Harry,” Hermione said again. Her hands knotted into the robes over her lap, and Harry forced himself to look up.

“Granger,” Malfoy said, somber and sharp. He passed Harry a mug; the water was warm and tasted as though it had been sitting out for awhile, but Harry gulped it down. His stomach felt like it was curdling in on itself. “Give him a minute.”

“What _happened_?” she asked, whispering again, sounding as near tears as Harry’d ever heard her. He opened his mouth, but Malfoy answered for him.

“You don’t want to know,” he murmured. Harry lowered the mug to look at him. His face was drawn, lips swollen and pink as though he’d been chewing on them. His eyes didn’t seem to know where to settle.

“What did you see.”

“Enough,” Malfoy said tightly. 

“You used Legilimency.” A hot, sweeping ache swelled in Harry’s chest. Malfoy’s movements were edgy, nervous, but he didn’t look remotely guilty. “After I said no.”

“I told him to,” Hermione said. Harry whipped his head around incredulously. She closed her eyes with a swift inhale through her nose. “You were out for over an hour. I wanted to take you to Mungo’s, but Malfoy said to wait. I had to know if—” she broke off, sucking her lips between her teeth. “I told him to.”

Harry didn't know how to feel about that, so he lifted the mug again. This time the water was fresh, cool. Malfoy must have refilled it with his wand. “What did you see?” he asked again.

“Enough,” Malfoy repeated. “And… nothing.” He ran a hand over his face. “It was— You were right; you were elsewhere. Your mind was merely… linked to this dimension, by the barest thread. I could hear your thoughts, when they occurred to you, and filtered conversation, but couldn’t see the context.”

“How many jumps did you see?”

“Oh, fuck,” Malfoy mumbled, creamy complexion going practically translucent. He stood with a broken, disbelieving laugh, kicking away the rolling desk chair he sat upon. “How many places like that did you _go_?”

“Two. It was… It was like flipping the page in a book.” Harry took another sip of water. He could feel his pulse in his ears and his hands were still shaking. “I need something to eat.”

“We went to your chambers,” Malfoy said abruptly, moving over to his desk. 

Harry rubbed hard knuckles over his sternum and looked away. He had nothing to be ashamed about. “I wouldn’t— I’d never have—”

Malfoy tossed him a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper, sliding his desk drawer shut with his knee. Harry opened it desperately; the faint scent of food was overwhelming, thick slices of roasted ham, layered with sharp cheese. He bit into it, chewing rapidly, and swallowed with a moan. 

Malfoy looked at him steadily. “Don’t say never, Potter. But… Yes. I—”

_Know,_ Harry thought he was about to say. Only he didn’t — couldn’t; not after that. Not if there was a Harry out there who…

“I can’t go back there,” he said, mouth full.

“ _Please_ ,” Hermione said. Harry looked at her in surprise, swallowing his bite. “What chambers? Where did you go? Is this what you suspected?” she added, looking to Malfoy for the answer to that.

“Yes,” he said. He opened his mouth to explain. Harry hunched his shoulders and applied himself to the last bites of the food, not wanting to hear or think about it again, not wanting _Hermione_ to hear it, especially not how Malfoy would surely describe what happened. Malfoy cleared his throat. “Specifics honestly aren’t important, I don’t think. But he’s right, he can’t go back there.” 

Startled, Harry took him in. Malfoy stood with his hands planted on his desk, shoulders bowed, hair falling over his face. He sighed. “And he can’t be left alone, either.”

“That’s fine. Good, even.” Hermione reached out and took Harry’s hand when he polished off the sandwich. He was barely sated, stomach twisting for a different reason as he considered Malfoy’s weary posture. “He can come home with Ron and me, and—”

“Hermione,” Harry said, voice like lead. Malfoy looked up; their eyes met. “That’s not what he’s suggesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magpie's AU tumblr prompts series can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/936696)! :D


	3. Chapter 3

“So.” Harry mopped up the last bit of stew with a chunk of crusty bread and popped it in his mouth. Kreacher had it prepared for him when they’d come through the Floo, a huge, hearty pot. Harry would have felt embarrassed about how much he’d eaten if Malfoy hadn’t tucked in to his own bowl with near-equal greed. He’d never seen Malfoy eat with anything other than impeccable manners before, so the shiny smear of stew at the corner of his mouth was new. Then again, Harry _had_ eaten his lunch. “You said you would explain.”

As though thinking about it had somehow alerted Malfoy to its existence, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, sitting back in his chair to study Harry silently. The moment stretched out like elastic, tense, more and more likely to snap. 

“Well?” Harry put down his spoon. They’d spent another three hours at Malfoy’s lab, long enough for his initial potions to rule out standard wizarding magic and positively identify some of the magical herbs in it as having come from southern Russia. Malfoy hadn’t let them leave until he’d set up more potions stations, as well, brisk as he explained that he needed to replicate the potion before he could brew a cure. He’d brushed off Harry’s questions, hands moving swiftly to chop fresh ingredients from his stores, not even trusting Harry to grind a root plant into pulp for him. 

Malfoy took a long sip of the wine he’d not allowed Harry to have, fingers fiddling with the stem of his glass when he set it down. With obvious reluctance, he said, “It’s not a field we directly study.”

“I didn’t realise there was such a thing,” Harry said.

Malfoy smirked. “I said ‘directly.’ Unless you’re very lucky, you only have one lifespan. If we devoted a room to studying the infinite complexities of other dimensions, the thought is that we would be wasting time better spent on more useful research.” His nose wrinkled. Almost apologetically, he said, “Most of us are Ravenclaws.”

“Other dimensions.” Harry focused on the most pertinent bit. “One lifespan.”

“Mm. Excepting cases like yours, of course,” Malfoy said with a wry twist of his mouth.

“I’m not even sure how many I’ve been in now.” 

“That wasn’t what I meant. I was talking about your,” Malfoy’s cheeks darkened; his fingers pressed against the table, “other lifespans. Two, so far.”

“Oh.” Harry thought about it. “Outlasting the Killing Curse counts as another life?”

“It does if it killed you,” Malfoy said. “Rumour has it you died.”

Harry’s neck tightened. “Rumour?”

“There are always rumours, Potter. You, of all people, should know that much.” The corner of Malfoy’s mouth ticked up. Harry relaxed and returned his tiny smile. He laughed softly.

“Especially when there’s someone around,” Harry returned significantly, “to perpetuate them.”

“Come now, I’m playing nice,” Malfoy said, pulling a little face that made Harry want to laugh again. Abruptly, he said, “My mother was there.”

“Doesn’t mean she knows what happened.” Harry drew a finger around the rim of his water glass, focusing on the motion rather than the lump rising in his throat. The glass issued a high, clear note, and he pulled his hand away and took a breath. “Doesn’t mean she doesn’t.”

“Yes.”

“Is it something you need details on?” Harry made himself ask.

Malfoy’s hesitation this time was longer. “No.”

Harry looked up, exhaling. “Do you think that has something to do with it?”

“No,” Malfoy repeated, though his additional, considering pause wasn’t lost on Harry. “Not really.”

“So I’m travelling between... dimensions.”

“Not between them.” Malfoy drained his wine, licking off burgundy droplets that clung to his upper lip when he lowered his glass. “To them. There’s a difference, we think. As I said, it’s an understudied area.”

Harry waved a hand. “Can you stop procrastinating and just tell me your theory?”

With a peculiar blend of sheepishness and irritation, Malfoy said, “I think it was a potion designed to find a specific dimension.”

“And why are you in so many of mine?”

“There are…” Malfoy trailed off. He clucked his tongue, a frown wrinkling the bridge of his nose. “The brain makes connections so deep sometimes that it shapes our personality. I’m sure there are dimensions in which we’d never met, or I’d never been born, or you. But in all the ones we _have_ , there’s likely to be a, a,” he faltered, licking his lip again, “a link between us.”

“Like... destiny?” A subtle ripple of tension rolled through Harry at the word, even though Malfoy shook his head. It felt… close, somehow. He looked at the fractured line of fate on his palm.

“It’s not my _area_ , Potter,” Malfoy snapped. He gestured sharply to Kreacher, who had lingered in the kitchen nervously while they ate, doing busy work. “More wine.” Harry scowled, but before he could say anything, Malfoy sighed, voice softening, and dragged his fingers through his hair. “Please, Kreacher. Thank you.”

Kreacher wandered over with the bottle and set it on the table. Malfoy replenished his glass, the liquid sloshing a little when he raised it to his mouth. His cheeks were flushed. 

“A link, alright?” Malfoy sounded steadier after his third gulp of wine but slightly more defensive. “For all we know, it could have developed the worlds you’re going to, and it could be based on any number of things that have happened between us; we were children when we met.”

“So why do I need you with me at all times?” he asked, though he was pretty sure of the answer. Trying to be fair, ignoring the heat rising in in his throat, he said, “You seem to be a bit of a catalyst.”

“Only when we touch, I think. You need an anchor, and there’s a spell I can perform that I think will mute the effects of...” Malfoy trailed off, clearly unable to figure out where to go with that. “It’s why it’s important for you to be at Grimmauld Place, as well. There are fundamental ties to your magic here. While you were out, Granger mentioned a drive to come home?” Creases formed near the corner of his mouth and on his high, clear forehead when Harry nodded. “Hogwarts would probably work as well. But Kreacher has no obligations there, except to you. We want as strong a binding as we can get. Kreacher, you noticed he was gone?”

“Gone and not gone,” Kreacher croaked, scratching the back of his thigh. “Master Harry is being slipping away from Kreacher and Grimmauld Place, but is coming back.”

“Good summary,” Harry murmured. Malfoy snorted, and Kreacher glared at them both.

“Maybe Kreacher is not caring if Master Harry leaves,” he muttered. He wandered away, still grumbling under his breath as he finally vacated the kitchen.

“He loves me, really,” Harry snorted, surprised when Malfoy’s face turned serious.

“He does, Potter. Elves always love their Masters. Even,” he added stiltedly, eyes falling to his empty bowl, “when they hate them.” He pressed the knuckle of his forefinger to his lips and cleared his throat. “It’s important that Kreacher is linked to you, that Grimmauld Place is, that…”

“That you are,” Harry finished for him when Malfoy’s words dropped off. Harry rubbed at a kink in his shoulder, trying not to think of the last world he’d been in. Trying not to think of the ones that came before. 

He had so many questions to ask Malfoy, but they all summed up to the same thing: Why _you_? Unfortunately, it was the one thing he couldn’t find a speck of his legendary courage to ask. 

“Why couldn’t Ron or Hermione stay with me, then? Here, I mean. They were there, too. At least…” Harry searched his memories. “I, yeah, I think they were. Definitely in at least a few of them.”

“I have the best shot of bringing you back,” Malfoy said, too simply for how the words resonated inside Harry. “If we’re in near-constant contact, I’ll know immediately if it happens again. Not only am I a skilled Legilimens, and will be be able to follow your train of thoughts if you do dimension-skip again, I actually have more than a rudimentary understanding of your life, so I can ground you. In addition, the way potions affect the brain and mind is my main area of study, so if it turns out to be that—”

“You might be able to fix it,” Harry said.

Malfoy hummed an idle affirmation and sipped his wine again. 

“Right, okay.” Harry stopped. Tensed. “Wait a second. What _kind_ of ‘near-constant’ contact?”

***

“Thanks Kreacher.” Harry took the towel Kreacher offered, drying off briskly in the shower stall and wrapping it around his waist before stepping out. 

It had taken him years to get used to Kreacher’s bland, unblinking servitude in the face of his nudity, always popping in to Harry’s bedroom to bring him coffee while he got dressed in the morning without warning, once appearing at Harry’s bedside with a snack while he was having a wank before sleep. Harry had finally sat down and fully explained knocking, a concept Kreacher still seemed to think was daft. Apparently, the Blacks had thought elves so beneath them that they hadn’t considered basic modesty when giving Kreacher orders. Still, his presence was almost comforting in this instance, waiting outside the stall rather than Malfoy while Harry showered, assured that he most likely wouldn’t world-jump — but there in case Harry _did_ , and Kreacher needed to fetch someone.

Kreacher frowned and muttered under his breath about Harry’s hair, something Harry was pretty sure he was supposed to ask about. When he didn’t, Kreacher said, “Master Malfoy is being sharing Master Harry’s bed.”

Harry stared into the mirror. He cleared his throat and picked up a comb, raking it not-so-gently through his wet hair to give himself something to concentrate on. “Yes.”

“Master Harry is not being sharing his bed with anyones.”

“Well, I am tonight,” Harry said, wincing when the teeth of the comb caught on a snarl near his nape. Trust him to have the only elf in England to comment on his sex life — which wasn’t… nonexistent, to be fair. But when he thought about Ron and Hermione’s unsubtle commentary of late, it threw things into a rather dour light. He looked at Kreacher’s reflection; his face was drooped, his eyes downcast. “What is it, Kreacher?”

Kreacher’s shoulders twitched up. “Master Malfoy is here to keep Master Harry safe.”

Harry put down the comb. His hair, beginning to dry, was already curling again in its odd black nest of cowlicks that stuck out around his scalp; a quick, after-shower comb minimised some of its natural tangles, but anything more tended to make it worse. He turned and leaned against the basin of the counter. 

“Yeah, he is,” he admitted. “You can…” It was on the tip of his tongue to bring up the option of giving Kreacher clothes again, but he recalled the burnt food and hole in his favorite band shirt the last time he had. “You can take some time off, if you like. If you’d prefer not to be around while all this is going on.”

Kreacher shook his head immediately, as if the thought appalled him. It probably did, actually. Though Kreacher maintained the same surly, bitter countenance as he had when they’d first met, after the Battle it had been impossible for him to hide his regard for Harry — to the point where even Hermione admitted (while looking in dismay at his ruined shirt after Harry complained) that Kreacher belonging to him wasn’t the worst thing, if it made him happy.

“Well, then.” Harry picked up the pile of clothes Kreacher had left folded on the toilet seat. He tried to ignore his own jittery nerves and gave him an encouraging smile. “Thanks, Kreacher. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Harry pointedly waited until Kreacher nodded and Disapparated loudly before dropping his towel. The fabric of flannel bottoms and t-shirt stuck to Harry’s damp skin as he tugged them on. He looked around a little helplessly. There was nothing left for him to do; he’d brushed his teeth twice, peed, and even found himself reorganising his potions cabinet before he got in the shower. Frowning, he made himself open the door and walk into the bedroom.

Which was… lit with floating candles and tiny crystals that hovered between them, sparkling in the flickering light. Harry stopped, blinking at both the room and Malfoy’s casual bedwear — he wore a stretchy, fabric headband to hold back his hair, and a grey t-shirt, so comfortable and soft looking, it was clearly old. He also had on a pair of ratty black track pants; Harry tried not to notice how they stretched taut across his backside when he bent in one corner of Harry’s room with a lit bundle of incense. The room glowed gently, soft and… mood enhancing, and Malfoy walked around it, murmuring and waving the herbs around, the pungent, aromatic — but not displeasing — smoke wafting behind him.

Harry cleared his throat. “What’s all this?”

Malfoy held up one finger without looking over and continued casting. He walked slowly, pausing here and there, then rising on the balls of his bare feet to reach a certain spot, or crouching down to investigate a nook or baseboard as he worked his way around. 

Harry crossed his arms and waited, more fascinated by this side of wizardry than he cared to admit. He’d never been much good with herbal magics, much preferring the immediacy of using his wand. When Malfoy reached the door, his arm stroked a wide arc, shoulders flexing when he reached up to anoint the sash with smoke. The frame blazed gold before fading and Malfoy lowered his arm and put out the smouldering tips of the incense with his wand. 

“I already got your bed.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. Then, drily, “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Oh.” Malfoy padded over to the bed — something about his feet drew Harry’s gaze; the vulnerability of pale, bare skin; his high, almost delicate arches; the knob of his ankle, dusted with cornsilk hair — and climbed in nonchalantly. It was as if he wasn’t even _aware_ that they barely got along, that he’d once stomped on Harry’s face and been slashed with Harry’s wand. Although, honestly, Harry was having some trouble remembering that as well. Malfoy fluffed the blankets around his lap, then took one of the pillows behind himself and deftly transfigured it longer. He put it in the middle of the bed and sat up against the remaining pillows stacked against the headboard. Unwillingly, Harry considered how good he looked there. “I forgot how little you pay attention.”

Harry rolled his eyes; Malfoy was still clearly more aware than he seemed. He braced himself and slipped in beside Malfoy.

“Try to remember,” he said lightly, punching some plumpness into his own pillows, perhaps a bit too forcefully.

“Will do.” Malfoy smirked. “How are you feeling?”

“Uh.” Harry drew back slightly to look at him. “Fine. Clean?”

Malfoy exhaled a quiet laugh. Though his mouth was still pursed into a light sneer, his amusement sounded friendly, even relieved.

“The spell I just cast should enable us to touch,” Malfoy said, indicating the distance between them in bed. Harry raised his eyebrows and let himself stare baldly, satisfied when colour rose in Malfoy’s cheeks as he seemed to hear his own words again. The peachy-pink of it was actually rather… complementary in the candlelight, but Malfoy’s eyes took on a murderous sharpness at Harry’s silence. 

“ _Accidentally._ ,” he muttered. “Should we accidentally touch. Which is likely, when two people are asleep together in close quarters. Accidentally. And then only long enough to alert me so I can move away. I have this pillow here.” He gestured to it.

Harry shrugged as though it didn’t matter — and really, it didn’t, much, not if it kept Harry there. He could cope with a little (or a lot of) embarrassment.

With a clipped nod, Malfoy added, “And it should alert me and keep you stabilised in your bedroom, should something happen while you sleep. The fact that you’ve jumped for the last several nights and come back is promising, but,” he flapped a hand, “better safe than sorry.”

“What can you do, though, if I… go somewhere?”

“Not much,” Malfoy said with a frankness that Harry hadn’t expected. “Not really. I’ll have an idea where you are, which I think would be...” He hesitated, eyes taking on a dark cast, mouth flattening. “Wise. After…”

“Yeah.” Harry held up a hand to stop him, sure he wasn’t imagining the relief on Malfoy’s face at not having to discuss his last jump.

“Anyway. Because your consciousness is linked to this world — you said you remember who you are, even though you seem to understand who you’re meant to be, there — I may be able to communicate with you.” He looked uncertain, drawing his knees up to his chest under the covers and hooking his arms around them. It was an oddly vulnerable pose, like someone young and alone might sit, Harry thought, uncomfortable with the insight . “Keep in mind, I can’t… I can’t _see_ what you’re seeing; it’s not the same as real Legilimency, with accompanying images, Potter. If you can focus enough, if it happens, I want you to try to… consciously think about what’s going on around you.”

Harry looked at him blankly. “I haven’t exactly _not_ been doing that, even when I thought they were just dreams. It’s not as if you suddenly find yourself as a pirate and don’t consider the hows or whys of it, when it feels as real as it does, you know. I do think about what’s happening.”

“I said _consciously_ , Potter,” Malfoy huffed. He rubbed a hand over his jaw; Harry could see a faint growth of stubble there, when he looked closely. “Most of what we do, what we think and take note of, is reflex. We don’t stop to think, ‘I’m going to take two steps to my chair, sit down and drink this fine-roasted coffee. I am talking to so-and-so about this subject.’ We don’t supply details, because our unconscious does it for us. But that’s what I need you to do. Anything I don’t get, you’ll fill me in on in the morning.”

“Oh. Alright,” Harry conceded, feeling dim. His exhaustion pressed on him like the most bone-crushing kind of Portkey lag and he forced himself to focus. He thought about the way Legilimency worked, how startlingly the images flashed in his mind once he’d learned it — it still wasn’t one of his strengths — and how they often seemed unconnected to anything around them, wobbly bright spots of pain or pleasure or secrets. Half the skill of Occlumency, Auror training had taught him, was compartmentalising his conscious thoughts so he could bury them if needed. All he’d need do here was the reverse. “I think I can do that.”

“Good.” Malfoy hugged his knees a little tighter before releasing them. He slid down in the bed, not looking at Harry, who snorted a laugh at his affected calm.

“You’re not really as fine about this as you look, right?”

Malfoy’s mouth compressed, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “With sleeping next to the man who’s hated me for more than a decade? With the Auror who’d be perfectly happy should I find myself in Azkaban, years after I’ve actually done anything _wrong_? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t want you to go to Azkaban!”

“You’d love it,” Malfoy said, a tremble of bitterness in his matter-of-fact tone. “Even though I did everything I was asked. I took my Newts, did community service, took Muggle sensitivity training, _got a prestigious job_ , made apologies — _even to you_ ,” he added sharply, “and you still look at me around like I’m going to brandish my Mark to Summon the Dark Lord.”

The accusations spilled from Malfoy’s mouth like he had been practising them for years, piercing little arrows that stunned Harry into momentary silence. The gush of stifled emotion coming from him set Harry on his back foot and it took him a minute to summon a response past the churning of his stomach.

“I do not!” Harry said when he found his voice. He curled his fingers into the bedcovers. It was the truth, of course, but Malfoy’s words had basis in a more distant one. He felt a nagging undercurrent of shame. “I don’t want you to go to Azkaban,” he said again. “We see each other around. We seem to get on fine, unless we’re alone,” Harry said, watching Malfoy to see if his words were having any effect. “I asked if you wanted to play darts. You don’t play darts with someone you want in Azkaban, Malfoy.”

Malfoy remained silent, lips sucked into his mouth and bitten down on. He barely twitched, and Harry drew another deep breath, determined to make it clear that this wasn’t all his fault. 

“I was willing to… I don’t know, move on. I helped you pick up your parchment once. But you seemed angry about it. You—”

“You laughed when the wizard knocked into me first.” Malfoy turned his head on his pillows; his eyes were heavy-lidded, the grey filled with shadows.

“I don’t remember that,” Harry said, looking away. And he didn’t, although... it sounded like something he once would have done. He’d been furious, at first, to learn the Ministry had hired Malfoy — for a job as an Unspeakable, no less. They had power, and their lack of supervision was unnerving, as was the way their jobs remained a deliberate mystery. Their opinion was sought by nearly every department, in one way or another, and the thought of people going to Malfoy for aid, _trusting_ him when he’d spent his life being horrible was just—

“Well, you did.” Malfoy’s voice shivered through him, as flat and bleak as his gaze. “It doesn’t matter. No, I’m fine sleeping here. I get a favour, remember? Anything I need. No bar games required.”

“I couldn’t have known about this happening when I bought you a beer,” Harry muttered, sliding down in the bed and turning on his side. Malfoy didn’t say anything, but his face flickered with an implicit, _Oh, no?_ , and Harry sighed. The air was thick with tension and Harry found himself thinking of another time, another him, in the same position, curled in bed with Malfoy and pondering how to proceed.

“I don’t want you to go to Azkaban,” he repeated a third time, the words coming out soft, like the touch he instinctively wanted to drift over Malfoy’s shoulder before he remembered not to touch him. Malfoy’s face tightened unhappily; his eyes narrowed. “It matters.”

“Why?” Malfoy shifted his hips, the blankets rustling around them. A tiny rainbow danced off his cheekbone and over the curve of his lip before vanishing; Harry looked up to see one of the hovering crystals twirling above them, and a floating candle, casting bright prisms of colour through it. He didn’t know which statement Malfoy’s question referred to.

“I don’t know,” Harry said at length, an answer true for both. He cleared his throat; it sounded too loud in the room, too rough, like it might crack apart the low hum of acknowledgement between them. “I haven’t thought about it a lot.” He admitted, “I’ve _tried not_ to think about it.”

Malfoy sighed, eyes closing briefly. He reminded Harry, incongruously, of Molly when she got exasperated. “We don’t have to like each other to work together,” was all he said as though closing the matter entirely, just when the silence began to feel awkward.

“I don’t not like you,” Harry said. He winced; the simple statement felt too revealing, encompassing everything from the way he noticed Malfoy’s hair sometimes to how irritated he got in Malfoy’s presence without knowing why: everything Harry had avoided examining too closely until the damned fairy had come into his life.

Malfoy's gaze flew to his. Harry let himself be studied without comment. He’d got used to it by now.

“We should go to sleep,” Malfoy said, lower and less tetchy.

His words acted like their own sort of sleeping draught. Harry wanted to continue talking, but his eyes were already gritty, and tiredness swept over him at the reminder. Missing sleep as an Auror wasn’t unheard of, but he’d learned to take whatever opportunity he got for it when he could, and lately none of his sleep had been very restful. He yawned. 

“We’ll talk about it later,” he decided. He resisted the lorelei of sleep a little longer, trying to organise his drifting thoughts. “What happens if I can’t get back?”

“You’ll get back,” Malfoy said, eyes on Harry’s face. “I’m here.”

It was an overly-confident promise to make, Malfoy’s crisp voice as haughty and arrogant as Harry’d ever heard it. Harry nodded and let his eyes slip shut, comforted anyway — by the promise made, and the warmth of Malfoy’s body, just a scant space away from his own.

***

_”There’s a good boy,” Malfoy said in a low, dulcet tone._ “Ready and waiting for me, I see.”

Harry shivered at his approval, mouth falling open obediently when his lip was grazed. Harry peeked upward, the world clicking into place around him. Malfoy stood before him, rubbing the sensitive flesh inside Harry’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. The jacket of his peacock blue suit was off, the silk of his waistcoat perfectly tailored to fit his lithe frame. He pushed his thumb into Harry’s mouth, deeper. “Suck.”

Harry sucked, laving the digit with his tongue, cock spurting a dribble of precome when Malfoy aimed a smile down at him. Harry trembled, piecing it together; his thoughts felt scrambled by how ridiculously aroused he was, naked and on his knees in front Malfoy, fully clothed. He grazed Malfoy’s knuckle with his teeth; the tip of Malfoy’s thumb teased the back of Harry’s tongue.

_Oh, god, I can’t tell him about this._

_Potter._

The response to Harry’s thought shocked him and his body jerked. Malfoy’s brows drew together tellingly; he slipped his thumb free from Harry’s mouth and cupped Harry’s jaw, turning his face up. Harry lowered his eyes, the way Malfoy preferred; the way he did, too.

“All right there?” Malfoy asked softly.

“Green,” Harry said automatically, the word followed by, _Fuck, say “red”, you prick,_ in his head. His mouth remained traitorously silent, refusing to overrule his body; he _needed_ this tonight; Malfoy had cancelled on him for the last two weeks.

 _Cancelled what? What’s red? Why are you giving me colours?_ Malfoy’s voice rang quiet in his ear, the barest echo of his own world.

 _Shut. Up.,_ Harry snarled back. He pushed back against Malfoy’s presence in his head, unwilling to let him see this.

 _S—p!_ Malfoy’s voice faded; surged. _Potter, don’t make me threaten to tell Granger on you._

Malfoy’s brow smoothed; he tucked a strand of flaxen hair behind his ear, favouring Harry with another approving smile. Harry wanted to groan but bit it back, mind working frantically as to how to actively keep his thoughts from the Malfoy determined to hear them, since he couldn’t get rid of him.

 _Well, don’t,_ Malfoy told him, somehow managing to make his thoughts sound annoyed. Harry replayed a recent Cannon’s match in his head to annoy Malfoy further and distract himself from the proceedings.

“Good.” Malfoy strode across the room to the bar. He poured himself a finger of whiskey, taking a sip before turning to Harry again. “I’d offer you one, but that’s not what you want, is it?”

“No,” Harry said, voice hoarse enough to sound like he’d already had several.

“And what is it you do want tonight, Potter?” 

It was Malfoy’s standard question, silkily asked. One of their staples, ever since they’d run into each other at the club two years prior, both still broken from the war and looking for a way to channel the jumpy energy that kept them awake at night. Harry had been uncertain when they were first paired but their assignation, somehow, had been the most successful of the evening, leaving Harry drifting — and Malfoy too, eyes glazed and face flushed, but perfectly in control as he’d petted his hot handprints, stinging Harry’s backside.

_Wait, **what?**_

Harry closed his eyes again, in horror this time, mutinously dismissing the demand for more information. Malfoy twisted his head over his shoulder when Harry didn’t respond. Harry took a gulp of air.

“The belt, please.” It came out a whisper. And, more firmly: “Sir.”

“I thought the paddle might be more suitable tonight,” Malfoy murmured. He set his drink down and uncuffed his shirtsleeves, rolling them up to his elbows. Each movement was precise and calculated and, put together with the calm control of Malfoy’s expression, made Harry’s blood simmer sweet. Malfoy arched a brow.

“Yes. Please,” he remembered to say, a shudder of lust rolling through him at the white flash of Malfoy’s teeth. Even smiles felt like rewards. He tightened his hands, bound behind his back, into fists. His jaw felt made of stone, going tight at the sudden, shocked echo of laughter in his head.

_Is this what you’re… into?_

_No!_ Harry objected, though he hadn’t really explored enough to say definitively. So far it didn’t seem that bad, though he didn’t love not having use of his hands. But then, he realised, that had made him uncomfortable when this Malfoy and Harry had first started, too; it had been one of the options he’d resisted the longest in negotiations. So maybe it was just his normal response to being voluntarily tied up for the first time. Reluctantly, he added, _Yes. I guess. Here. Fuck. Go away, or get me out._

Malfoy’s laughter faded in his mind, though there was still the rich undercurrent of amusement when he said, _Tell me what’s happening. Try to think in as much detail as you can, think about your history; make sure there’s context, in case I—_

Harry’s cheeks blazed as Malfoy returned to stand before him. “Or maybe the crop,” Malfoy said, tilting Harry’s face up again.

“The crop,” Harry agreed. Malfoy petted his hair back, fingers twisting the strands around them, and Harry gave himself up to the luxurious sensation of it, of being touched affectionately, of giving up control and not needing to know what was coming. Harry could ask for anything, but Malfoy made the final decisions. Harry could say _no_ , or _stop_ but Malfoy would keep going, just as Harry needed, unless the words _yellow_ or _red_ toppled off Harry’s tongue.

They only had once in the last two years, one night when Malfoy had come to him in a rare, middle of the week firecall, eyes wild with the remnants of terrified dreams. His hand had been unsteady, too much force behind the flick of his wand, allowing no pleasure to accompany the pain. But when Harry finally said _red_ — partly from distress but also out of concern for Malfoy’s state of mind — Malfoy had fallen to his knees. He’d fallen to his _knees_ before Harry, and rested his head in Harry’s lap, shaking with apology, and from his thwarted desire, and with the things they could never talk about. Harry had held him for long minutes, whispering nonsense and allowing Malfoy to regain himself until he’d finally withdrawn and prepared them a bath. 

They each sought their own illusions about control, really.

“What else?”

“Your cock, please,” Harry said. _Oh fuck you,_ he thought sourly when Malfoy’s incredulous laughter sounded again.

 _Sounds like it’s going to be the other way around_ , Malfoy returned gleefully.

“Do you want to suck me, Harry?” Malfoy asked, looking delectable and sly when Harry bit his lip at Malfoy’s use of his given name. His groin was just above Harry’s eye level; the long, rigid line of his prick pressed against the front of his trousers, angling toward his hip. “Or would you like me to fuck you?”

“ _Please_ ,” Harry said, trembling once more at the implicit promise of the crop and a sound fucking that left him floating and deliciously sore. That his voice came out a whimper didn’t embarrass him at all this time, not even when Malfoy’s voice in his head went quiet, laughter cutting off abruptly. His presence lingered unobtrusively, a hush of sensation that slid through Harry’s mind with an intimacy that strangely mirrored the one pulsing between him and the Malfoy in the room. “Yes.”

Harry forced himself to concentrate, nerves jangling at both Malfoy’s silence in his mind and the way the Malfoy, here, contemplated him. Since he was already found out, he drew a breath and forced himself to review and relate details, searching his mind to fill the gaps: he was an Auror, and Malfoy was working to rebuild his family businesses, which had been failing until he’d come into his majority on his last birthday. They met on Friday nights; Harry had been with only one Dom before Malfoy, but knew he would never seek another if, for some reason, they parted.

There was a small, hidden part of him anxious that it would happen, that one day Malfoy would decide not to return from a trip, but the way the lines of stress around Malfoy’s eyes eased when he saw Harry after a time away reassured him. They never talked about their relationship; they rarely even spoke in public, in fact, and when they did, the conversation was never anything but polite. But Friday nights they allowed everything else to fall away and they came together to take what they needed, to give each other what only the other could, and Harry _needed_ those nights. Loved them, even, and loved Malfoy for giving them to him.

“Go on then,” Malfoy said softly. “Show me how much you want it.” He scratched at Harry’s scalp lightly, canting his hips forward. He waved a hand and Harry’s wrist restraints unravelled. “You can touch me.”

Harry shuffled a little closer, knees dragging on the thick carpet. Though it _felt_ like his hands were shaking, they were perfectly steady when he lifted them to pop the button of Malfoy’s trousers open. He leaned forward to carefully take the tab of his zipper between his teeth, breathing in small huffs through his nose. Malfoy aided him, pulling his shirttails out and tucking them under the hem of his waistcoat. Harry jostled Malfoy’s zip down until his trousers hung open; he wasn’t wearing pants beneath, and Harry pressed his face in, against the ash-gold curls peeking out, cheek brushing the side of Malfoy’s swollen cock. He inhaled, moaning a little at the musky, warm scent of him, at the way Malfoy’s fingers tightened in his hair. His own cock jerked up, ruddy, steadily leaking and bobbing against his stomach before the heaviness of it pulled it down. He felt filthy and decadent whenever Malfoy used him like this; felt free of worry; felt loved.

Harry used his chin to work Malfoy’s trousers lower before hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling carefully so the fabric didn’t catch against Malfoy’s erection. He glanced up.

Malfoy stared down at him, eyes bright from desire and drink. His cock rose before him: long, darkly flushed, the foreskin slickly hugging the glans; barely more than the glistening slit of it was visible. Harry circled the shaft with a light fist, checking with Malfoy again. At his clipped nod, Harry tightened his hand, smoothing back the velvety skin to bunch near the base, his breath coming in short, anticipatory pants. He rubbed his cheek against it, eyes flicking up to Malfoy’s face when he hissed lightly, then turned and mouthed along the length, fluttering his tongue.

“That’s it,” Malfoy said. “Show me what a beautiful cocksucker you are, Harry—”

 **Blink**.

[ _Draco’s hair barely darkened when it was wet,_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13641633) Haerrrreee thought, smiling at him. He was fascinated by the strange drape of his legs, those _neeez_ , Draco had called them, and how they bent at will, fascinated by the growth of his male appendage. They lazed in the sand, Haerrrreee’s fin lifting and sliding against the cold water with sensuous strokes as the low tide came in, pooling around them. He shuddered when Draco slipped a hand down his chest to curiously tweak his nipple.

“Those are useless for mermen,” Haerrrreee said, though he had to admit the stimulation was interesting. Not nearly as interesting as the mental sensation of falling from a great height with no broom handy, Harry thought, frozen.

 _Mermen. MERMEN, MALFOY_.

“Not so useless,” Draco said, rubbing it again. He smiled wickedly, and Haerrrreee’s hearts burned in his chest and tail; he gathered Draco close again, dropping kisses against his pale, exposed throat. Draco wrapped tight arms around his shoulders, huffing small breaths with each sucking kiss, mouth rosy and bitten when Haerreee lifted his head. Haerrrreee ran a hand down his body. So far, whenever they met, Draco would pull away at this point, wobbling away from him on unsteady legs. Legs always looked unsteady to him, with none of the grace of fins. But Draco’s were long and pleasingly shaped, muscled and useful. 

Haerrrreee nosed along his throat and covered the swell inside his trousers with his palm. “Your appendage grows again.”

 _Merlin_.

 _Oh, thank fuck, you’re here,_ Harry thought with blank panic. _What do I do?_

_I don’t know; you’re a merman!_

Draco’s face went pink; Haerrrreee worried for his skin in the beating of the sun above them. The reflections of the sea could cause him pain; Haerrrreee had seen it happen in sailors and travellers alike, and though the faintly salty taste of those who had been burnt was not displeasing, he had a memory of one of them, skin like a crab, screaming with pain upon being touched, even before the meal began. He found himself concerned that touching Draco could cause him pain.

But Draco only sighed, shifting under his palm. “It does.” Water glistened on his lashes, and he smiled with a curious shyness, looking dazed. “I’ve been meaning to ask how you… seek pleasure.”

“This is very pleasurable,” Haerrrreee said, licking Draco’s ear.

“I mean.” Draco’s flush deepened, and Haerrrreee cast a frown at the sky. The sun gods would learn to be wary if Draco’s skin no longer liked to be touched by him. “Seek pleasure from...mating?”

 _What the fuck_ Harry heard, and couldn’t be sure if the thought came from him or Malfoy.

“Ah,” Haerrrreee chuckled with sudden understanding. “I thought you knew.” He squeezed the appendage deliberately. “Is this how you do, then? Have I been doing it wrong?”

“That doesn’t feel wrong,” Draco said, the tantalising ripple of water threading his voice. “What did you think I knew?”

“My ears,” Haerrrreee explained, and almost sagged with relief that nothing weirder came out of his mouth. Just like that he knew the rest of it, and explained, “They give me great pleasure when you touch them. My mating appendage feels it as well, but my ears…” Haerrrreee sighed with feeling. “It is separate from mating, though frequently performed during the act.”

Draco bit his lip, searching his face. “I touch your ears, when your hair flows free. I’ve… kissed them.”

“I know,” Haerrrreee laughed. “It is why I thought you knew.” He clamped his hand over Draco’s appendage again. “And this?”

“That’s… That’s really…” Draco’s lower half twisted and he rocked into Haerrrreee’s exploring hand. Haerrrreee watched his responses, ears tingling with pleasure and starting to burn, something soft inside him breaking free from the lure of the waves to—

***

Malfoy was sitting in a chair at his bedside when Harry woke. Gone were the candles, the crystals; sunlight poured in through his half-drawn curtains. It was an easier waking than it’d been each time before, less of a painful, scrambling shock to his system but for his seemingly ever-present hunger. But that was somehow muted, too; he even felt more rested. At the smell of food, Harry grabbed his glasses from the nightstand and sat up.

Wordlessly, Malfoy passed over the tray on his lap. Harry began eating with visceral need, focus turning to his food: a rich, triple-sized omelette, stuffed with sausage and cheese. He groaned. Only when the omelette was half-gone was he able to slow, though he didn't stop forking bites into his mouth. Malfoy waited throughout and, when he finally managed to leave his food long enough to take a sip of the steaming coffee beside his plate, Harry asked, “Why am I so hungry?”

“Not sure.” Malfoy sat back and crossed his legs. “You slipped into sleep after,” he paused, mouth twitching, “the last bout. I ran a diagnostic on your system. The jumps are using massive energy levels. The brain itself uses about twenty percent of the necessary calories we take in — who knows by how much that increases when you're using more than one mind at a time.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Probably.” Malfoy didn't sound bothered, nor did he seemed inclined to expand on the subject. His mouth still held the faintest curl of a smirk.

Harry ducked his head and continued eating, face gone hot. That Malfoy hadn't actually _seen_ what had transpired was irrelevant; he knew enough now to lord it over Harry forever. The silence felt deliberate, Malfoy’s gaze like a brand against Harry's cheek. Harry sighed, exasperated. “What.”

“Oh, nothing.”

It wasn't a _nothing_ tone, Harry thought sourly. It was definitely a _something_ tone.

“Just say it.” He scraped the last bit of food up and ate it, chewing slowly this time and chasing it with the final dregs of his coffee.

“Say what, Harry?”

Harry's eyes snapped to him; narrowed. Malfoy sucked his lips between his teeth, biting down on them, but it looked nothing like his terse silence from last night. His nostrils flared subtly.

“Nothing,” Harry said, scowling at his own sullen tone as much as Malfoy's obvious amusement. “ _Draco._ ”

Malfoy flicked his wand; the tray Vanished from Harry's lap. Mildly, he said, “I don't believe I gave you _permission_ to call me that.”

“Don't be an arshole,” Harry snapped, as concerned for his own skin as he had been for Malfoy's when he was a merman; his face felt about to melt off. “I can't help what they do or like.”

“You liked it, too.” Malfoy’s voice went low, all traces of humour gone. He sounded like he had in Harry’s jump: self assured; expectant.

Flustered, Harry couldn’t think how to respond other than to say, “Well, I was in his head, wasn't I?”

A beat. Then, more normally, “I just didn’t know you...”

“Yeah, I’m a pleasant surprise in every dimension, I guess,” Harry said, ruefully. Malfoy chuckled and inched to the edge of his chair as if to stand. Without thinking, Harry caught his wrist. His thumb rested against the neck of the snake in Malfoy’s Mark and they both looked at it. It felt like regular skin to Harry, soft, Malfoy’s heartbeat beneath it, steady and fast.

“I didn’t know you were like _this_ ,” Harry said quietly. He let go of his arm; Malfoy sank guardedly back into the chair. Harry chewed his lip. “You’re helping me — at a price, I know, but you are — and… I wasn't— good. I had to… After the war, it took me a while to move on, I guess.” He considered. “It was hard to look at things in a new way. But you’re different than I thought. I mean, I always knew you were smart, but I didn’t see the...” _Human side of you,_ Harry stopped himself from saying. It sounded too mean for an apology, which was what he was going for. “The side of you that would give his lunch to someone he didn’t like, or that would even continue to talk to them after what you overheard in my head yesterday...the side that wore jogging bottoms to bed instead of satin pyjamas.”

“I meant that I didn’t know for certain you liked wizards. Blaise said something, but…” Malfoy drew in a breath, shoulders spiked. With a caustic sort of humour, he said, “Satin pyjamas aren’t that comfortable, really. Too slippery. Not very warm. But I'm glad to hear that my sleepwear has convinced you that I'm worth your time. We could have been best mates as of fifth year. That explains Weasley, I suppose, though I do wonder how you've managed to remain friends with him now that he occasionally manages to dress as though he’s not colourblind. Is it another sort of fetish? The fashionably hopeless make you feel protective, so you step in? How many fetishes do you have, P—”

“Stop,” Harry ground out. “That’s not what—” This Malfoy was such a contrast to the others; at least with them, Harry had an idea of what to say, how to proceed. “I only meant to apologise. So, I'm sorry. For laughing that time. And other things. And I appreciate it, what you're doing.”

“For a favour,” Malfoy reminded him. He lowered his eyes, the sunlight against the pale sweep of his lashes catching Harry's attention. Malfoy opened his mouth; stopped. He seemed to run through several possible replies — likely each worse than the last — but when he finally spoke, his voice was cautious. “But you're welcome.” 

Harry nodded, though Malfoy couldn't see, his gaze riveted on the perfect pleat of his trousers. “Alright. I can live with that.” He propped his glasses on his forehead and rubbed his eyes, attempting to wake up a bit more. “As for the other thing, it’s not a state secret. I just haven’t… There hasn’t been much opportunity for me to… Well, you know. Date. I generally try to keep things quiet,” he explained. He sighed and replaced his glasses. “Is that why I’m going into, ah, those sorts of moments?”

Malfoy looked up, confusion flickering in his eyes. When they cleared, he snorted. “The gay sort?”

“I guess,” Harry said with a surprised huff of laughter. He blushed. “Um, a few of them have been like that.”

“...sexual in nature?” Malfoy asked, with a disturbing lack of surprise and an even more disturbing clinical sort of detachment. But he held his breath, Harry saw, which — for some reason — made Harry want to hold his breath, too. “How many?”

Harry coughed. “That might be the…‘more’ I alluded to yesterday.”

“I see,” Malfoy murmured, and Harry got the mortified impression he really did. Malfoy threw him a veiled glance. “How many of them have been… worlds, or situations, you didn't like?”

“Malfoy!” Harry half-laughed in shock.

“No!” Finally, _finally_ , some of Harry's embarrassment seemed to transfer. Malfoy groaned, sitting back with an ineffectual gesture between them. But his voice was still composed — if slightly more wary — when he explained, “I simply meant: in how many worlds have you felt… markedly apart from yourself? Who you are here. I assume… That one where…”

“Yes,” Harry bit out, unhappy with the reminder. He thought about it, taking in Malfoy’s ruffled blush. “That one. The, uh, merman, I guess, though not to the same extent.” He struggled with it for a moment, the thing he knew he had to admit. “But I've felt like all of them, while I'm...there.”

“I would assume so,” Malfoy said, so dismissively Harry’s breath left him on a hard rush.

“Even in that...place?” Harry asked. The question came out quiet and Malfoy’s eyes found his. Though he could see the waves of discomfort coming off him in his rigid posture and tightly wound fingers, Malfoy’s voice was remarkably gentle.

“You don't have it in you to be a Dark Lord, Potter,” he said, quietly certain. “If you did, you would have made different choices and become one. As evidenced.” 

“Yeah.” Harry felt shaky. He let Malfoy's words settle inside him before continuing. “I couldn't choose to be a merman.”

“Some of it will be choice, some of it, serendipity,” Malfoy said. He hitched one shoulder up.

“And the other part? Why it's so often,” Harry cleared his throat, “sexual?”

“You don't get laid enough?” Malfoy’s mouth twitched again, his eyes round and innocent.

Harry snorted — mostly so he wouldn't give into the temptation to agree. “Shut up and tell me.”

“A thought occurred to me this morning,” Malfoy said instead of answering. “I had planned to bring it up later, but now is probably as good a time as I'm going to get.”

Eyeing him, Harry sat back against the headboard and gestured for Malfoy to go on. Malfoy cleared his throat.

“You tried to push me out last night. You almost managed,” he said flatly.

Harry winced. “Yeah, sorry. It was… uncomfortable.”

Malfoy snorted. “More or less uncomfortable than travelling to alternate realities?”

“More,” Harry said. He sighed. “I mean, no, of course—”

“No, I wanted the truth,” Malfoy said. “It probably was. Because you know them but not me.”

“I know you,” Harry said. At Malfoy’s irritated grunt, he insisted, “I do. Not everything. But more than a lot of people. I would have been just as uncomfortable having Hermione see… that.”

“You wouldn’t have tried to throw her out, though,” Malfoy said smoothly, as if Harry had just proved his point. Whatever that was. “And that can’t happen again. I’m here for a reason.”

“Right.” Harry swallowed and took a breath. “Yeah, okay. I won’t do it again.”

“Of course you will; that’s what I’m saying. Because you don’t want me to see certain things, you’ll be fighting me whenever I follow you.” Malfoy paused until Harry gave a slow nod and then said, “So I think we should get to know each other better.”

“Uh.”

“Calm down, I’m not asking what form of impact play you’d like to engage in tonight,” Malfoy said, exasperated. Harry glared. “I think a simple Q and A will suffice. With Veritaserum.”

“What? No!” Appalled, Harry considered firecalling Hermione and informing her that their ‘best hope of figuring things out’ was, in fact, completely off his nut. “I can’t take Veritaserum, Malfoy. I _actually_ can’t; I’m an Auror. There are too many things I’m privy to that you’re not.” He held up a hand when Malfoy opened his mouth. “I’m not saying you’d ask me things like that, but I think you must’ve forgotten how Veritaserum works; you could phrase one question the wrong way and I’d be compelled to answer it. I can’t do that.”

Malfoy smirked and, really, ‘smug’ shouldn’t look so good on anyone, Harry thought with a touch of resentment.

“And I think _you_ must have forgotten, Potter,” Malfoy said slowly, smirk slipping into a smile, “that I’m a potioneer.”

***

“This,” Malfoy said, holding up a crystal-stoppered vial with clear liquid, “is Veritaserum.”

A flicker of amusement slipped through Harry. Malfoy’s clipped, instructional tone made him wonder if he’d practised mimicking Snape as a child. He caught Hermione’s quickly-hidden smile — she’d heard it, too.

“I can see that,” Harry said somberly.

With a subtly theatrical flourish of his wand, Malfoy placed the vial on his desk. It stood on its curved end, spinning slowly, on display. Harry bit his lip.

“Which,” Malfoy continued, “will make you spill all of your secrets. While not infallible, even the most skilled at protecting themselves against its effects are prone to mistakes.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged another glance. They sat together on Malfoy’s small sofa and waited. From within his emerald green waistcoat, he withdrew another vial. “And _this_ ,” he said, “is my own version of it—”

“Did you put that in your waistcoat when we got here, just so you could pull it out dramatically?” Harry asked.

Malfoy sniffed and ignored him, “—which compels the drinker to tell the truth _only if they choose to answer,_ ” he said, chin tilting up. The liquid within this vial was mostly clear but murkier, swirling with little, hard-to-see silvery clouds. “So it gives you the option to weigh the question before saying anything; it’ll also only pull the truth from you if you sense it’s pertinent to the objective.”

“Why am I still here, again?” Hermione wondered aloud. “I just came in to give Harry that file from Ron. I have things to do; _some of us_ are still trying to save his life, you know.”

“It took me nearly a year to develop this,” Malfoy went on, eyes gleaming down at the vial with uncomplicated pride. “Three areas of the brain become active when we lie: the anterior cingulated cortex, the dorsal lateral prefrontal cortex and the parietal cortex. This specifically targets the first and last, which monitor errors and reads sensory output. But, unlike regular Veritaserum, it only gently tweaks the dorsal prefrontal — which controls behavior — so you have input on the amount of truth you reveal.”

“Wow,” Harry said after a beat, trying to sound appreciative. Malfoy looked up, frowning.

“No, really,” Hermione said, sitting forward. She, at least, didn’t have to fake her enthusiasm, though she still seemed as confused as Harry. “That’s brilliant, Malfoy. Well done.”

Malfoy nodded, relaxing. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “You’re here as a witness so that Potter will feel more comfortable taking it.”

Hermione blinked and looked at him; Harry smiled at her weakly. “I thought it might make him less inclined to ask personal things.”

“But the whole point is that you can choose not to answer,” Hermione said, baffled.

“I didn’t know that part yet!” Harry said. “You saw that little presentation he just gave us.”

Malfoy huffed. “Presentation?”

“Can I go then?” Hermione asked.

“Hell, yes. Please,” Harry said. He shooed her away. “I don’t really want to answer stuff in front of you, either, if I don’t have to.”

Looking vaguely offended, Hermione said, “I already know all your stuff.”

“Presentation?” Malfoy asked again.

“You don’t know all my stuff,” Harry said, frowning.

“I could quote all of your stuff,” Hermione said. Her lips twitched.

“It was an _explanation_ ,” Malfoy insisted, and Harry threw his hands up in the air.

Five minutes later, irritable at having had to soothe Malfoy’s indignation and coax Hermione out the door by agreeing that she knew ‘all his stuff,’ Harry watched as Malfoy popped open the cork and drew out two droplets of the cloudy liquid with his wand. He tipped them into his shallow glass of water with a small _splink, splink_ sound, then drew out two more droplets to add to Harry’s. He handed Harry’s cup over and, without waiting, drained his own.

“Cheers,” Harry said wryly, heart thumping. He drank his as well and waited expectantly.

Malfoy licked his lips. “Not tasteless, though,” he said, sounding rueful. “I haven't managed that yet.”

“It's not bad, though,” Harry said. It wasn't; just a little tart. His irritation faded in the face of Malfoy's chagrin — he'd been so gleeful only a few minutes ago. Malfoy looked at him and smiled.

“That was the truth,” he said, pleased.

“Well, yeah.” Harry looked at his empty glass and gusted out a small laugh. “Oh.”

“Alright, then.” Malfoy clasped his hands together on his desk. “What can I do to make you more cooperative when I hear something on your jumps that makes you uncomfortable?”

“Going straight for it, aren't you,” Harry murmured. “And here I thought you'd start off asking me my favourite colour.”

“I already know that.” At Harry's raised eyebrows, Malfoy snorted. “Anyone who reads the papers does. I also know your birthday, shoe size, favourite food, political leanings, and a host of other things that don't really matter in regard to this. I'd be comfortable wagering that you know the same about me.”

“No bet,” Harry said with an unwilling smile. He sat back, getting comfortable, and evaluated Malfoy for a minute. “I'm not sure I trust what you'll do with the information you see after all this is done,” he finally answered.

Malfoy nodded but stayed quiet.

Harry took a breath, searching for the right way to phrase it. “You've made it clear that you're helping in return for a favour. Which is fine,” he said slowly, working it out as he spoke, “but what's to say you won't decide that someone else's favours are more...useful to whatever your goal is? You'll be hearing a lot of personal things, and some of them might be true about me. The me, here, I mean. And you—”

“Don't have a good track record with you and the press,” Malfoy said, nodding again. Harry inclined his head warily. Malfoy sighed. “If it helps, you have my word that none of the information I learn will ever get out unless you decide to tell someone. You've got to at least know I would have said yes anyway. The favour is simply a perk. To be the wizard who didn't extend help to Harry Potter when asked? Do you think I need _that_ on my track record anymore?”

Harry thought about it. “Okay, good point. I'd still like to know what you want from Hermione.”

“Tough. Even I haven't figured it out yet; I just like knowing that I'll have professional leverage if I ever need.”

“Practical of you.”

“Slytherin,” Malfoy said with a small smile. “And don't even try to shame me for it.”

“I wouldn't,” Harry said, surprised. “Not anymore, at least.” He chuckled. “I almost placed there, you know.”

“Ha h— wait, what?” Malfoy looked at the glass still in Harry's hand; his eyes widened. “ _What?_ Why didn't you?”

“Chose Gryffindor,” Harry said with a shrug, amused. “Yours was the Dark Wizard House. I was eleven. You'd just placed there and had been mean to my new friend. Lots of reasons.”

Malfoy stared at him, unblinking, lips parted for several seconds. He gave a tiny shake of his head. Exhaled a light burst of laughter. “I always thought you'd be well-suited to Slytherin.”

“Really? Why?” Harry let himself ponder the ease of their back and forth for a second; it felt nothing like the interrogation he'd worried about.

“You were more cunning than you let on. You could be ruthless,” Malfoy said, not bothering to hide his admiration over it. “You had powerful adults at your beck and didn't fear consequences when you stood up for something.”

“A lot of that was happenstance,” Harry said. Quietly, he added, “And I was more at their beck than they were mine.”

“Well, of course. But how do you mean?”

Harry opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. He cleared his throat. “I'd rather not answer that one.”

Malfoy sat back in his chair, eyebrows drawing together, lips pursed. “All right. Let's move on to other things.”

“Like?”

“Personal things not likely to be in the paper,” Malfoy said, waving a hand. “You already have my word under Veritaserum that I won't talk; now we need to make you comfortable on a more basic level. Ask me something. We'll go one for one. Make it embarrassing.”

Harry floundered. “I don't want to know your embarrassing—” The lie choked off, tangling his tongue, and he got an annoyingly knowing look for his efforts. “Fine.” He thought for a moment. “You said you thought about training to be an Auror. Why didn't you?”

Malfoy indicated his forearm, hidden under his sleeve. “This,” he said simply. “They wouldn't have considered me, even if I'd scored better on my DADA Newt.”

“You were an Auror in the other world, though,” Harry said.

“We've no idea what the political structure was like there,” Malfoy pointed out. “Or if I had this.”

“No, you did,” Harry said without thought. Malfoy tilted his head and Harry flushed, coughed. “I saw it,” he said lamely. “When we were…”

“Ah.” Malfoy's eyes glinted. He looked down at his desk, colour dusting the blades of his cheekbones. “Hm.”

“Hm?”

“Should I ask you to explain out loud?” Malfoy asked. Harry shook his head swiftly and Malfoy slanted him a smile. “How did you lose your virginity?”

“What?” Harry hesitated, surprised into a grin. “Uh, it was Gin’s seventeenth birthday. We were at the Burrow, and she wanted to go swimming in the pond after dinner, so we did, and it… just happened. It was great, but fast,” he added, and immediately cringed. “I don't know why I said that.”

Malfoy laughed, full throated and open, teeth flashing. The corners of his eyes crinkled, Harry noticed, a bewildering dizziness streaking through him. Malfoy gave a pointed look to Harry's glass. “The potion. If it makes you feel better, I lasted all of forty seconds. If that.”

Absurdly, it did. “Maybe eighteen-year-olds just don't have good staying power.”

“I was fifteen.”

“Oh. How'd yours go?”

“Astoria Greengrass,” he said with a sigh and barely-there grimace. “She snuck into my room with a bottle of elf wine, because our parents were in talks. It was… fine. Well, not great. Confirmed my inclinations toward men. And hers toward women, incidentally. It was actually a relief it was over so quickly; I had to imagine someone else to even get hard.”

“Who?” Harry asked.

“Pass,” Malfoy said. “Anyway, it's my turn.” He studied Harry, humming thoughtfully under his breath. “Are you really into BDSM?”

Harry opened his mouth to deny it and said, “I don't know.” He paused. Letting the potion work it out for him, he continued, “Probably not to the degree the other me was, but I like trying stuff. I don't mind when things get—”

“Rough?” Malfoy supplied, eyes on Harry.

“I was going to say ‘enthusiastic,’” Harry muttered. “Why, are you?”

“Rough?” Malfoy said again, eyes twinkling.

Fucking hell, Malfoy's eyes could _twinkle_.

Harry spluttered, torn between amusement and incoherence. “ _Into_ that. BDSM.”

“Not formally, although I don't mind a good spanking.” Harry spluttered again, and Malfoy grinned. “This will wear off in a few. One more?”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry said warily. “Is it about sex?”

“Sharing intimate details has a way of fostering trust between people,” Malfoy said casually, hitching one shoulder up. He drummed his fingers on his desk. “How many people have you been with? Sexually?”

“Four. Two men, two women,” Harry said, disconcerted with the simplicity of the question. He bit his lip, thinking, determined not to counter predictably. “Do you top or bottom?”

“I…” Malfoy blinked. The blush that had been spreading over his face for the last few minutes — despite his blasé air — reached the tips of his ears. “Both.”

“You have a preference, though.”

“Don't we all,” Malfoy said lightly, recovered. He rose. “Hopefully, that will help. I have an assignment for you.”

“What?”

“I need to know specifics about what's gone on in the other places you've been,” Malfoy said, running his fingers through his hair. He sucked in one cheek with a small grimace. “But I have to spend time on the potion.”

“Do you…” Harry's brow knit as he tried to work out what Malfoy was asking. “I mean, I assumed you’d need to. I thought to bring my work here — I’d be able to answer any other questions you have. Any ones I know the answers to, at least.”

“I thought you could write it down for me. You need to take a leave of absence for the duration, anyway,” Malfoy said, raising a brow when Harry scowled. “You’ve got to be aware of what a liability you are like this, even just at your desk.”

“You're not my boss,” Harry snapped, goodwill evaporating as he tried not to think of how much like Robards Malfoy actually sounded. Malfoy looked at him steadily and Harry threw up his hands. “Fine. I'll _ask_ ,” he conceded with ill grace. Malfoy's brow stayed up with pointed patience. Harry sighed. “And write everything down.”

“Good.” Malfoy smoothed his trousers. He looked down at Harry for what felt to be a long time, head tilted. “I've got a legibility quill you can use; I remember how atrocious your handwriting can be.” Harry blinked and Malfoy made for the door. “Let’s go talk to your boss; we've not got all day.”

***

Harry yawned, setting his quill down to flex his hand. “When will you be done?”

“I suspect never, but I can break when you’re finished,” came Malfoy’s muffled, drawling response. “Are you finished?”

“Yeah.” Harry wished it was a lie. “Near enough, anyhow.” He tapped his wand to the stack of parchment to secure it together; another tap sent it to his desk at home. He didn’t want to have to look at it anymore. It wasn’t as though he didn’t have time to work on it if he remembered any details he’d left out; Robards had heartily given permission for Harry to take leave until the curse was resolved. Or, as Robards put it, voice booming with enthusiasm, “finally take some of that holiday time you’ve accrued if you won’t accept sick pay!” Harry still felt antsy about the whole concept of taking time away, but Robards had been so relieved as he’d shuffled Harry out the door, Harry wouldn’t have been surprised to have looked down and seen that Robards had shoved a whiskey and cigar in his hand.

“Then we can go.” Malfoy came over, removing large eye goggles and dropping them carelessly on his desk. He brushed damp hair back from his face and started on the buttons of his robes, fingers swift. He hung them on a hook and they Vanished; Harry glanced at him. “We have a service,” Malfoy said, a little defensively. “It was dirty.”

“You spilled something?” Harry asked. 

“Of course not.” Malfoy scoffed, a tiny crease appearing at the corner of his mouth. “But fumes seep into fabric, and I’ve been inside my stasis bubbles for hours,” he said, frowning. He drew his wand, and Harry watched curiously as Malfoy’s magic rippled over himself, drying his hair and the sheen on his face and softening the heightened flush on his cheekbones. His dress shirt was damp, too, sticking slightly to his chest in a line all the way to his naval, and his spells took care of it, leaving him looking as fresh and comfortable as he had when they’d left Harry’s house that morning. The glow of magic faded, to Harry’s surprised disappointment; it looked very much like Malfoy: evenly elegant until the spell took effect, then sharp and bright around the edges before disappearing. For not the dozenth time, Harry recalled the friendly warmth of Malfoy’s wand in his hand as a teenager.

“Right,” Harry said, feeling remarkably unsettled. “I want to go see Barclay.” At Malfoy’s inquisitive look, he said, “The wizard who… was involved with the fairy. I haven’t been in a couple of days, and that file Hermione dropped off didn’t have much more information in it.”

Picking up the file and scanning it, Malfoy murmured, “He’s rather young to have retired. Most wizards work until their nineties, at least. Especially when they don’t have family. Is that something?”

“Maybe.” Harry shook his head. “Maybe not. He’s a widower; it started as grievance time and just continued. That happens. But the goblins — the ones who would talk to Ron, anyway — say he’s clever with a galleon and always showed up on time. ‘Valued worker,’ I think was the quote. If the reason he didn’t come back to work was because he was having trouble there, no one’s going to say. Anyway, I’d like to make a stop.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Because your presence will magically wake him up? Because the sixty seconds it takes for you to hear the news that he’s woken and get to Mungo’s is a sixty seconds better spent by his side?”

Harry paused, mind flashing through all of the moments of his life during which he wished time hadn’t slipped so quickly through his fingers. Sixty more seconds could mean a living godfather, a living friend. A hand extended rather than a wand raised in a bathroom that ended up splashed with blood. “Every second matters, sometimes.”

“This is hardly a _war_ , Potter,” Malfoy said after a beat, but his voice had lost its scathing quality.

“Then call me stupid and impatient, but we’re going,” Harry said firmly.

“You’re stupid and impatient,” Malfoy repeated instantly, but shrugged. “It’s no matter; you need to keep up your calorie intake, and I can leave these for now. Just let me read your notes first.”

“Uh.” Harry looked at the expectant hand Malfoy held out, then down at the empty desk. “I sent them home.”

“Potter.”’

“There are over ten pages!” Harry pushed out of Malfoy’s desk chair and grabbed his jacket from the back of it, shrugging it on. Malfoy’s mouth pursed with disapproval, like he knew that wasn’t the only reason Harry had sent them away; frankly, he wasn’t looking forward to Malfoy reading them. Disgruntled, he said, “You can read them tonight, okay?”

“If something doesn’t happen before then,” Malfoy said.

Despite Malfoy’s dire prediction, they managed to make their way through the bowels of the Ministry to the lifts without Harry growing dizzy. The lifts were the real challenge, anyway — as they had discovered that morning, close proximity didn’t seem to be a problem unless the space they were in was tight. It was as if the flourishing effects of the potion needed excess room to spill, else it would end up funnelling back into Harry’s mind. They kept a careful distance on the ride back up, Malfoy watchful and silent the whole time until the doors opened. 

They quickly headed up to the DMLE offices, winding through desks occupied with people giving Harry surprised glances as he stalked by with Malfoy trailing, all the way to his office.

“Nice,” Malfoy commented upon entering.

Harry squinted at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That your office is nice.” Malfoy looked around; smirked. “The perks of being the Chosen One, I guess.”

“The perks of being good at my job. Ron too,” Harry corrected, even though he knew he shouldn’t rise to Malfoy’s baiting. He shot Malfoy a look and rifled through his desk. From it, he pulled a couple of books on fairylore that he’d checked out from the restricted section of the Ministry research library and passed them over. “Like you.”

Malfoy checked, a line flashing between his brows before his face smoothed out. “I don’t have an office, per se.”

“Just a giant lab. Must be nice to never have someone assume you’ve gotten it because you’re liked.”

Malfoy snorted, but his breath caught partway through. Harry glanced at him, caught Malfoy’s eyes lingering on his open drawer. Malfoy’s file glowed bright at his nearness. It was a handy little charm Hermione had suggested when joining the Ministry, due to the “scandalous organisational state” of their personnel records.

Harry frowned and drew it out. He handed it over slowly. “There’s not much in it.”

“There’s enough.” Without opening the file, Malfoy set it in the small ‘outbox’ on Harry’s desk, designed to Vanish official documents to their assigned places in the building. When it had disappeared, he looked at the clock. “Visiting hours end soon.”

Sighing, Harry stepped closer. “I looked at it before we came to you about this,” he said, unsure why he felt the need to defend himself. “LIke I said, I’m good at my job.”

“And you thought my involvement was somehow work related?”

“No,” Harry hedged. He never claimed to be very good at examining his own motives for doing things. He refused to apologise but said, “I was curious. About things. I wanted to know more.”

Malfoy gave him a steady, searching look. “Okay.”

“Okay? That’s it?” Harry asked, sceptical. “Just…okay?”

“Were you expecting another medal for your investigative prowess?”

“More of a strop, actually,” Harry said, attempting a smile. Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“We’re not fifteen anymore, Potter.”

“No, we aren’t,” Harry murmured. Unbidden, his eyes wandered down and back up Malfoy’s long, slender form, gaze pausing — twice. He heard Malfoy’s sharp inhalation and snapped his eyes up, cheeks going hot at Malfoy’s obvious startlement; strange for his good-natured boldness from earlier.

“Were you…?”

“What?” Harry said, desperately trying to sound unaffected. It was a wasted effort, because his eyes slipped down again, from Malfoy’s face to the line of his throat, to the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple, and just to the right where Harry remembered him groaning in another world when Harry bit down there. Then lower still, to Malfoy’s chest, expanded with a held breath against his starched dress shirt and waistcoat. Malfoy crossed his arms in front of himself, a vaguely defensive posture, shoulders rounding in briefly before he straightened.

“I like your tie,” Harry said inanely. He nodded to it and turned away.

“You like my tie,” Malfoy repeated flatly, pulling up beside him as Harry headed for the door, strides long and loose. “That’s…” He snorted. “That’s horrible.”

Harry glanced at him, at the lopsided grin on his face, at all of Malfoy’s contradictions on display: the sharpness of his dress and loose elegance of his limbs; the haughty tilt of his jaw and soft curve of his lips; the cool colour of his eyes filled with warm amusement; the vulnerability of his stance and growing confidence in his gaze.

This was bad. This had the potential to be very, very bad.

“Really,” Malfoy said, “if that was an attempt to—”

Harry shook his head to cut him off, voice gruff. “We should go.” He warded his office door and led them through the MLE offices to the Auror Apparition point, then reached out, hand hovering over Malfoy’s closed fist. Vertigo looped through him, mild but undeniable, and he sucked in a breath. “How am I supposed to side-along you?”

Malfoy sighed through his nose; he cleared his throat. “I didn’t realise that’s what we were doing here. I’ll take the Floo, Better that we don’t risk skin contact without charms in place.”

“No skin contact,” Harry repeated, feeling ridiculous. He nodded. “Yeah. Okay, yeah. I’ll see you over there.”

Seeming to waver, Malfoy gazed at him before pushing through the double doors that led out. Harry waited until they shut before looking down at his reaction with exasperation. “Really? Him? _Now?_ ”

“Who are you talking to, Sir?”

Harry coughed.“Uh, no one…” He struggled to place the name of the Junior Auror who was looking at him with barely-tempered hero-worship. She wasn’t even that new; Roberts, maybe. Richards? “...mate. Myself. Long day. Have a good night,” he babbled, face burning. He turned from her and Apparated with the single-minded focus of someone who knew his life had changed fundamentally, and didn’t want to consider how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magpie's AU tumblr prompts series can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/936696)! :D
> 
> Her works referenced in chapter three:
> 
>  
> 
> [ _Customs of the Land and Sea_ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13641633)


	4. Chapter 4

“‘Faeries of a spritely nature, however,’” Malfoy intoned, plummy accent emphasised with sharp punctuations and pauses, as though narrating a Muggle documentary, “‘have long been considered Creatures with the most pointed sense of humour, particularly those with the rare gift of wish-granting.’”

“Shut _up_.” Harry groaned, scooting down in his chair so he could rest his head against the back of it. He closed his eyes. Malfoy had been doing this for an hour; five minutes of boredom at Barclay’s bedside was apparently too long, so he’d decided to torture Harry instead. “You could have just told me the books don’t have anything useful in them.”

“I’m only on the second chapter of this one,” Malfoy said with snarky brightness. “We have forty-seven others to go; you don’t know what may or may not be useful. And _this_ was the reading material you brought, because there was nothing else around for me to read...”

Harry snorted, peeking at Malfoy through his lashes; Malfoy sat with one arm propping his head, legs crossed, slouching lazily as he turned the page of the giant tome resting on his lap. He was smiling, so clearly enjoying himself it was equally clear he didn’t realise his expression was so telling. Harry grinned.

“I sent it back to my place,” he repeated for the dozenth time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malfoy murmured. “This was just what I was in the mood for. Oh, look. ‘Upon shedding their first glow, which happens around the age of fifty years, Fairies come into a unique magical skill that usually manifests according to the capabilities of their bloodline. At this point, they select their names.’”

“What do people call them for fifty years?” Harry wondered. Malfoy shrugged and continued.

“‘Faeries are reclusive creatures, and apart from the following excerpt recorded in 1612 at the assumed site of a nomadic coven, from inscripted, enchanted stones, wizarding kind still remains in the dark as to how they breed.’” He looked up, eyes flashing wickedly. “Shall I read the excerpt?”

“ _No,_ ” Harry said, distracted into a laugh. “You’re awful.”

“You just have no interest in education.” Malfoy sniffed. Under his breath, bowing his head again, he added, “You need some discipline, I suspect.”

Harry twitched. Malfoy had been doing that, too, since showing up at the hospital: making little comments that Harry couldn’t _quite_ be sure were in reference to… what he thought. He cleared his throat and wondered if he should take the bait, but he wasn’t sure he could match Malfoy’s subtle implications.

“You should have someone help you with that,” Malfoy continued at Harry’s silence.

Screw it.

“Might be more of a disciplinarian, myself,” Harry said, which — fuck, yes, sounded too much like overt flirting. He also didn’t really know what he meant by it. He cleared his throat and amended, “Auror, you know. Went through training and everything.”

“Mm, quite.” Malfoy licked his thumb with deliberate slowness — _nobody_ needed to wet their thumb for that long — and turned the page. “I did too. For the research project that got me hired, I studied the effects of potion magic on the amygdala and hypothalamus, when positively administered for gratification purposes.”

Harry frowned, turning that over in his mind; all Aurors were required to maintain at least a basic understanding of physiology and Healing in case of emergency, but the certification renewal was every three years, and it had been two since Harry’s last. “The amygdala. Which…” His eyes widened. “Isn’t that where the, uh—?”

“Pleasure center is, yes,” Malfoy said blithely, eyes still on the book. “Well, more, but that’s what I did my research on.”

“Oh,” Harry croaked. “Who did you… research?”

Malfoy flicked him a wry glance. “I was under house arrest at the time, Potter. I was my own test subject.” He licked his lips, lowering his gaze again. A smirk to his voice, he said, “Got good at it, too.”

Harry sat up, planting both feet on the squeaky hospital floor. With a quick glance at Mr Barclay’s prone form, he demanded, “ _What_ are you doing?”

“I suppose what you were,” Malfoy said without prevarication, breath hitching light and fast. The fall of his hair covered his face, but the fierce red stamp on his cheeks was visible through it. “In your office. Only better. Or was I just not meant to comment on it at all?”

Harry swallowed. “I didn’t…” He sighed. “You weren’t meant to comment because I didn’t realise I was doing it. I’m still not sure that’s what I was doing.”

“You were,” Malfoy said calmly.

“Well, what about you? Those questions this morning,” Harry huffed. “They were practically designed to make me… Think about certain things.”

“Oh, please. Like you haven’t been fantasising about me for… How long ago did you take the potion?” He licked his thumb again and turned another page, and Harry didn’t know if the urge spilling up in him was to hex Malfoy or hustle him into the nearest empty room — they felt remarkably the same, when he thought about it. “You should pay more attention to things. I mean, it surprised me too, but only for about four seconds.”

“Quite a change from thinking I want you in Azkaban,” Harry managed. “Maybe I’m just not accustomed to you being pleasant.”

“You’ve seen me be pleasant; don’t be a twat just because you’re uncomfortable,” Malfoy returned. Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Malfoy shook his head. “I just never directed it at you before because…” His lips tightened, and Harry resisted the urge to tell him to finish his sentence. “Things _have_ changed in the last thirty-six hours… Wouldn’t you agree?”

The last was delivered more quietly, a genuine question.

“I suppose so,” Harry said at length, a touch hoarsely. Things had been changing for quite some time for him on that measure, he thought, longer than the last several days of dreams, but he elected not to say as much; he’d already confirmed enough that he couldn’t really explain. “Things are always changing.”

“Not everything,” Malfoy said. It came out soft and unintended, teasing tone stripped away. Harry studied him, heart thumping erratically, tongue thick.

“Malfoy?”

Malfoy tucked the curtain of his hair back behind one ear; his shoulders relaxed and he looked up, pointy chin set at an arrogant angle. Harry braced himself for something cutting.

“So we’re clear, we’ve been talking about sex.”

“Uh, yeah.” Thrown, Harry had to wait until his stomach stopped twitching to respond. “S’not what I would— How I’d—”

“What, then?” Malfoy flapped a hand, rolling his eyes. “Shagging? Fucking? Sucking each other’s—”

“Dating,” Harry blurted. “I’d call it dating. Because I'm not rude.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Malfoy’s fingers tightened on the book and he gave a soft surprised laugh. Pleased, like the word hadn’t even occurred to him, he said, “Dating, sure. Call it what you like.”

“All right,” Harry said, suddenly half-convinced he’d made another jump without being aware of it. The fluorescent lamps of the hospital had lulled him to sleep, perhaps. “We can call it anything, really.”

“Whatever gets you collared up,” Malfoy said after a pause. Harry shifted and willed his heart to slow down.

“I’m the one with the magical restraints,” Harry said. Malfoy shifted too, uncrossing his legs and sitting a little straighter in his chair. “I even have a set at home.”

“Potter—”

“Visiting hours are over,” the mediwitch said crisply. Harry jumped in his chair and Malfoy did too, scrambling to a stand with his book held in front of him. Harry rose more slowly, grateful for the cover of the bed between him and the door.

“No changes in his condition?” Harry asked.

She clucked her tongue but checked her parchment. “Nothing we’ve seen. His jaw will take some time, but it's healing nicely, and we've increased his liver regenerative and nutritional potions.” She looked back to Barclay, her eyes softening, and Harry followed her gaze. Something about being asleep in a hospital cot made people look... smaller and thinner, frail, even when their colour was good. The mediwitch sighed. “We’ve already taken him out of stasis; he’s just going to wake up...when he wakes up,” she said gently. “We’ll notify you, Mr Potter, sir.”

“Thanks.”

“I could call you ‘Mr Potter, sir,’” Malfoy said when she left.

Harry blushed. “Stop it.” He crooked his arm. “Come on; I’ve been thinking about it, and skin contact isn’t required for Apparition. Just hold onto me.”

“It’s a bad idea,” Malfoy said.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Is disagreeing with me just automatic, do you think?”

“ _Very_ occasionally, it takes effort, but I always prevail,” Malfoy said with a snort. “Hypocrite.”

Harry jostled his arm impatiently, and Malfoy sighed and reluctantly stepped closer, winding his hand around the inside of Harry’s elbow. The sick lurch in Harry’s stomach was easier to ignore than before, and he concentrated on the image of his parlour. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and Apparated, just as Malfoy tensed. He barely heard the warped sound of Malfoy saying, “Wait—” before the twist of apparition began.

***

_—not like I want to do this, either,’”_ Harry said, shoving up from his chair He shivered and looked around: Grimmauld Place, then. The magic of the house pulsed uncertainly around him, welcoming as always but… confused. He felt the moment it adjusted to accept him fully, his room warming and softening to enfold him in, and he sighed. Malfoy glared at him from across the dining room table, folding his arms over his chest.

“Could have fooled me. Inviting all of us here. _Humouring_ this daft ‘prophecy.’ This is payback; admit it.”

Harry smiled coldly. “You could have said no, and I think we both know there are ways I’d enjoy revenge more.”

“Feel like maiming me again, Potter?” Malfoy spat.

“More than fucking you? A bit,” Harry said, though he couldn’t stop the tremble of his voice on the last word. He wanted it, and didn’t.

Malfoy smirked and stood. In a smug taunt that made Harry want to pound a fist into his face, he said, “Can’t save the wizarding world without a hard-on.”

“Like you’re any better off.” Harry refused to be cowed into dropping his laced hands from in front of his crotch, and he gave a pointed look to Malfoy’s. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Here?” Malfoy cracked a wild laugh. “Your Weasel family is waiting in the parlour. My _parents_ are there.”

“D’you want moonlight and roses?” Harry mocked. “My nice, big bed upstairs? They’ll know what we’re doing whether we’re here, or there, and I’d just as soon not march up the stairs with you like we’re announcing it.”

“I don’t _want_ to do this at all?” Malfoy sneered, but his hands moved to the belt at his waist. He slipped it open. “Bend over the table, then.”

Harry gaped, heart hammering madly. He stared at Malfoy and tried to make sense of what was happening; it was too unpleasant. Something about the enemy and acolyte of Voldemort joining together in a symbolic gesture made flesh. Since the end of the war, magic had begun to destablise in dangerous ways, and when they’d finally found out _why_ , the magical contract had rushed through so quickly that Harry still felt a little shell-shocked.

And that was the Harry who lived this life, he thought, mentally hyperventilating.

“Why the fuck do you think _I’m_ the one with my arse in the air?” Harry demanded. Not to be outdone by Malfoy, he yanked his flies open. “I don’t even want to get that naked with you,” he said.

“You’d stab me in the back if I turned mine on you,” Malfoy said resentfully, but unbuttoned and unzipped anyway. With a mutinous glint to his eye, he shoved a hand into his gray boxer-briefs and began moving it.

“Can’t stab you til we’re done, at least.” Harry swallowed, forcing his eyes away. “Why did you have to be a virgin?”

“I’m a pureblood,” Malfoy returned, voice flat. “Why did you?”

 _I’m not_ , Harry reminded himself, disturbed by the whole process. _This is him. This isn’t you._

He shook his head, swallowing again. “I— I can’t do this.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Malfoy stalked up to him, rounding the table with long predatory strides. Harry tripped back as he approached. He had the furious thought that he’d never run from Malfoy before, not once, and stomped out the urge to flee. Then Malfoy was in front of him, free hand on his cock, sliding into his jeans and gripping it firmly through his pants. He squeezed it, and Harry’s flaccid prick jerked. “Apparently, you _can_ , and anyway, it's mandatory.”

“Every night for the rest of our lives unless the curse breaks,” Harry croaked, strained. He didn’t know if not getting hard at all or getting hard this quickly was more embarrassing as Malfoy stroked him. Malfoy turned his head, jaw knotting, and stuffed his hand inside Harry’s pants without looking, ignoring Harry when he gasped, thumb dashing quick and light over the underside of his glans. He adjusted the angle of his grip and glided his hand back and forth, teasing Harry into a full-blown erection. Even then, he didn’t stop, continuing to touch him almost thoughtfully, fist twisting so his fingers angled down and he could lightly scrape against the skin of Harry’s sac. Harry realised some minutes in that he was rolling his hips into Malfoy’s fist, breath coming fast and ragged, balls drawing up tight.

“That’s enough,” he rasped. Malfoy, breath coming a quicker too, paused. He squeezed Harry’s shaft again.

“I just want you to finish fast,” he said, letting go. “Should have shagged Theo when I had the opportunity.”

“Yeah, you should have,” Harry said. Malfoy had left off wanking himself to readiness while giving him a handjob and, feeling mean, Harry added, “You know, you have to finish, too.”

“Don’t remind me. And since you’re such a fucking child—” Malfoy stepped away. His throat worked and he turned around, shoving his trousers down around his thighs and bending over the table, so matter of fact about it Harry would have thought he wasn’t bothered at all if not for the rapid, almost panicked heave of his chest. His arse was pale and clenched, trembling. He brought a hand under him and his shoulder started working. “Are you going to do it, or aren’t you?”

_No. Oh, shit._

“Right.” Harry approached him; Malfoy flinched when Harry’s cock brushed against the cheek of his arse, but Harry couldn’t stop himself from seeking the pressure again, lightly. “I… I don’t have any, uh, you know.”

“Conjure some, for fuck’s sake.” Malfoy started muttering under his breath, shoulder moving faster.

Harry conjured some lube and fisted it over his prick, wanting to be as cavalier as Malfoy was trying to seem. He gave his cock another couple pulls — no sense in going soft.

“Just… get it wet, and put it in,” Malfoy muttered. One hand clenched on the edge of the table. Malfoy turned to look over is shoulder, silver eyes glinting and fierce as he took in Harry stroking himself. In the swiftness of events over the last few days, Harry’d not thought at all about how awful it must be for Malfoy to have to do this with him — his only thought had been how to get out of it. But he couldn’t control the ragged pant that broke free; he got to have _sex_. That it was with Malfoy didn’t seem to matter to his body a whit — who made it to twenty-three still a virgin?

“You need to relax or I’ll hurt you,” Harry said breathlessly. Even as the thought raged through his mind, he couldn’t stop himself from groaning a little when Malfoy shifted against him, the cleft of his arse rubbing Harry’s cock.

_Malfoy— Malfoy, fuck, help me out of this!_

“I’ll be fine.” Malfoy’s eyes sought his again; his brow furrowed. The fevered motion of his shoulder slowed and he turned away. “Really, just… do it.”

_Harry!_

Harry’s knees buckled a little; bringing his erection into contact with Malfoy’s arse. Malfoy inhaled sharply, but canted his hips up after a beat.

_Thank god, Malfoy—_

Harry exhaled shakily. He lined up his prick and paused. Malfoy’s buttocks were still tight; his arsehole exceedingly so.

_What’s happening?_

_I’m supposed to— but this is awful, and I can’t… I need to figure out a way to stop—_ Harry said, watching his prick rub against Malfoy’s rim.

_Don’t stop it, fuck, let it play out. Don’t do anything stupid. Potter. Harry! Are you listening?_

**Blink**

_—haven’t even kissed,” Harry said, breathlessly letting his head fall forward._ The stench of potion was thick in the room, overly sweet, but Malfoy’s scent was stronger: expensive shampoo and broom polish and ink. It flooded Harry’s senses, and his prick throbbed in Malfoy’s silky mouth.

Malfoy drew off, lips gone pink and swollen. “You want to kiss me, Potter? Does the potion give you warm and fuzzy feelings for me, too?”

“Shut up,” Harry said, holding his prick with two fingers and guiding Malfoy’s mouth back to it with a hard fist in his hair. “Finish your turn and then I’ll do it too. _Fuck._ Yes, _nnghh_ , that’s so good.”

And it was. Harry sucked in a breath and assessed. This is what they got, Malfoy had said to him minutes before, when Harry got heroic. That Harry’d thought hostages rather than some sort of illegal sex potion were being kept in the barrels — one of which had maybe, accidentally, a little bit, spilled all over them when Harry spelled it open — didn’t really matter now. Not if Malfoy was willing to go to town on him like this, lips sliding up and down Harry’s prick swift and slippery, cheeks hollowing out each time he pulled back to pay special attention to the head. Harry's balls drew up and he came with a low moan, one hand scrabbling at the wall behind him, the other gripping Malfoy’s hair. Malfoy swallowed — and _fuck_ , even that felt amazing, the small clenches of his soft palate as he took Harry deep for his finish — then drew off him with a panting sigh.

“You’re not going soft,” he said flatly.

Harry looked down at his cock. It was still heavy, still flushed and glistening now from Malfoy’s spit. “Er, no.”

“So that didn’t work.”

“Also no, apparently. C’mere.”

Malfoy looked surprised, but rose gamely. “You’ll still—”

“Hey,” Harry said, lowering to his knees, “you’re not the only one who can be a good friend.”

Malfoy’s cock was already rising out of his loosened trousers, and Harry realised he’d been wanking as he’d sucked Harry off. A shiver spread through him, and he opened his mouth to lick away the precome dripping from the slit.

_Harry?_

_Oh, fuck._

_You just...aren’t bothered enough to call me?_ Malfoy’s voice came. Harry flushed, bobbing his head and sucking Malfoy’s cock for all he was worth.

_Um._

_Stop it. Seriously._

_Aren’t I supposed to let it play out?_

Malfoy moaned. “God, _yes_ , you’re a good friend too, best partner ever, fuck— we should—” He pet Harry’s hair back, and Harry dragged his tongue over the ridge of his dick. “D-do this a- _gain, oh!_ ”

 _That’s not what I…_ Malfoy sounded uncertain. Then, abruptly: _Harry, stop!_

**Blink**

[_Harry jerked to a hard right on his broom, his equilibrium faltering._](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13641552) He levelled out instinctively, pitching himself forward rather than to the left so he could segue the imbalance into a tight, mid-air spin. It caught speed and he barrelled toward the ground. Adrenaline surged through him, the sensation of the world settling in place slowing his reflexes. He tightened his hands on the broom handle and pulled up hard just as the grass of the pitch came perilously close, the sight and smell of _green_ overwhelming everything. The sweep of his broom skittered against the ground at the overcorrection, jarring Harry forward but at least slowing him enough to throw himself sideways with a practiced roll as he was knocked off.

“Harry!” A flurry of angry French got closer and Harry blinked his eyes open to see Draco waving his hands, face tight with anxiety despite the furious tone to his words — which, Harry understood as rapid-fire cursing in French. He blinked again.

“I know French.”

“Bien sûr,” Draco snapped. “Do you think I don’t want you to know what I’m saying, you utter imbécile?” Still, he knelt in the grass, hands tender as they ran over Harry’s scalp, checking for injuries. Harry allowed Draco to tend to him and tried to get his bearings. “That’s the exact kind of move I warned you about.”

“What kind of move?” Harry asked, bewildered. His glasses, charmed stuck to his face, had come askew from the force of his landing. Draco cupped his cheeks and looked into his eyes, exasperatedly fond.

“The kind that takes you from me,” he murmured, lifting Harry’s hand and pressing a light kiss to his knuckles. It was so sweetly familiar the memories came back to Harry in a sudden rush: meeting Draco at the Triwizard tournament years ago before parting, the occasional bright spot of a letter finding its way to Harry as he toured. They had not always stayed romantically connected, but a year prior, Harry had invited Draco to join him on extended holiday while Harry toured, and Draco had simply never left.

Harry struggled to sit up. He wondered if a concussion in an otherworld would inhibit him from getting back. 

“Draco. I am okay, I think,” he said, voice rough. Draco straightened the sit of the fur over Harry’s shoulders, hand lingering warm at the nape of his neck.

“I know.” He dropped a kiss onto Harry’s gloved knuckles and drew back, translucent skin sparkling subtly. “Do not do that again.”

“There was a bird,” Harry said. He drew a hand through the white-gold shimmer of Draco’s hair. “But I will try not to.”

“Good.” Draco sniffed tellingly; he hated showing too much softness, still not understanding that it was one of the things Harry loved about him. He pushed up off the cold grass. “You’ll never win the World Cup again if that’s your reaction on a broom to a simple bird. Come.”

Harry laughed and took the hand he offered. He searched his mind for Malfoy’s presence but felt nothing. He swallowed hard, letting Draco lead him off the pitch to the stands.

Draco opened a waiting basket, darting relieved glances at Harry as he pulled out a hunk of bread and cast a warming charm over it, then conjured a knife to spread some herbed cheese over the piece he tore off. Harry ate it from his fingertips, the rich salt of the cheese and yeasty warmth of the bread wrenching a groan from his throat. “I do not know how you always find the right things to bring to practice. Camembert?”

Draco nodded mischievously, leaning forward to lick a spot of it away from the corner of Harry’s mouth. He opened a bottle of darkly bitter Norwegian beer and Harry practically moaned as he took a swallow, the flavours pairing bright and perfect on his tongue. “Since you’re drinking,” Draco said, “I think it would be wise if you did not venture back onto your broom for more practice today.”

“This is what you think?” Harry asked. He felt contented and strangely calm in this faraway place that didn’t belong to him at all. It occurred to him that the splendid diamonds on his grandmother’s wedding ring were gathering dust in his vault, and would look beautiful repurposed as a traditional Norwegian betrothal pendant.

His hand fell to Draco’s thigh; it was covered in thick velvet, but tensed promisingly beneath his palm. “What should I do, instead?”

Humming, Draco took a long pull from Harry’s beer, thin lips going plump against the mouth of the bottle. He watched Harry as he did it, eyes flicking away when Harry’s hand slid higher. He lowered the bottle, voice breathless. “Perhaps a massage. That was a very hard fall.”

A massage sounded nice, Harry thought, mind cottony and warm. Draco was beside him, and the mountains that surrounded them were tipped in white, and his broom lay uncracked in the middle of his private pitch. This was a good life to lead—

 _No,_ came Malfoy’s panicked snarl in his head. Harry started, the hand on Draco’s thigh clenching.

 _I was just_ —

_Come back, Harry!_

***

Harry woke up, seeking panicked purchase on his bed when he felt the trap of arms around him. The arms tightened once before releasing and Harry rolled away, sitting up into a defensive crouch, blood roaring in his head. His stomach felt sawed in half and he caught a flash of Malfoy’s face, washed of all colour but for a piece of gauze medi-taped to his forehead, boldly red with blood seeping through. Ron and Hermione entered his wild line of vision and started toward him, hands outstretched.

“No!” Malfoy barked. Hermione froze in place, halting Ron’s progress toward Harry’s bed with a white-knuckled grip to his elbow. “Kreacher!” Kreacher came forward, eyes huge and round. He looked younger than Harry had ever seen him, vulnerable somehow, and Malfoy took the tray he offered, setting it in the middle of the bed. To Ron and Hermione, he said, “Let him eat first.”

The words hadn’t left Malfoy’s mouth before Harry was eating, overwrought with hunger. He didn’t taste anything; he simply ate and _ate_ , grunting with each overloaded forkful of food into his mouth. He moaned against the racing of his heart.

Malfoy watched him steadily, getting into a more comfortable position on the bed. Ron and Hermione crept forward, faster when Malfoy didn’t halt them, and Harry flicked them an uncertain glance. Half his plate empty, mouth full, he finally mumbled, “What happened?”

“Apparition.” Malfoy bit off the words, looking angry. “It read as though we were trapped together and didn’t even work; it spat us out at Mungo’s. We're lucky not to have Splinched.”

Harry chewed slower, tiredness sweeping through him. “Then why are we not there?”

“You were,” Hermione said softly. She looked as rattled as Harry had ever seen her, and Ron caught her hand, his frightened blue eyes fixed on Harry’s face. “We got an emergency Patronus from them. But Malfoy couldn’t… He couldn’t find you, there.”

“The Healers couldn’t even get a whiff of your magical signature, and Malfoy freaked out and took over.” Ron sounded mystified, but Hermione exchanged a grim look with Malfoy that he turned away from, throat working silently.

Harry eyed him, swallowing the food — a rich lamb dish, if he had to guess. He glanced down, saw a bowl of thick stew, and started on that. His head ached, as if in a slowly-tightening vise, and he brought a hand up to rub at his temple.

“I don’t,” Malfoy said into the bleak pause, “‘freak out’ about things. And you two can go now.”

“What?” Hermione scowled. “ _No!_ You were right; it was important for us all to be here. We’re Harry’s _family_ ; we’re what brought him back!” She shook her head, riotous curls falling free from her bun and bouncing around her stubbornly set face. “We can sleep in another room, but we’re not leaving.”

Almost so fast that Harry missed it, Malfoy slid off the bed and drew himself to his full height. Ron pulled his wand, startled, but Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and stared unblinkingly upward. Harry took another bite of stew, unable to muster more than a dreamy sort of curiosity in the scene unfolding around him as the painful edges of his hunger softened.

“Your assistance was _appreciated_ , Granger,” Malfoy said, eyes narrow, “but you called _me_ in on this, because I _know what to do_.”

“But what if you _don’t_?” Hermione cried. She drew her arms down to her sides, hands fisting. Her eyes were damp, Harry realised with exhausted concern.

“Don’t cry, Hermione.” He took another bite of the stew and she looked at him.

Malfoy did too, mouth tightening. Turning back to Hermione and lowering his voice, he said, “I need to talk to you privately.”

“Ron can stay,” Harry said when it looked like she was going to refuse. Hermione gave him a tremulous look and nodded, then marched out without waiting for Malfoy to follow. He did a second later, softly shutting Harry’s door behind them.

“What do you mean, he freaked out?” Harry asked wearily. A heaviness radiated through his bones, comparable only to the one he’d felt after the Battle of Hogwarts. He’d slept for nearly two days straight, then. Ron eased onto the edge of the bed.

“Eat your stew,” he said gruffly when Harry waited for his answer. Harry dipped his spoon in obediently, feeling like a child and strangely okay with it. Ron sighed. “The Healers didn't want to let anyone near you. Then Blaise showed up as Malfoy’s emergency contact and wouldn't let him try, either — Malfoy was unconscious, too, when you both landed in Mungo’s — and Malfoy started yelling at everyone about how cavalier they were being with Harry Potter’s life. Hermione got in on it, and Malfoy pulled his wand when no one would listen to either of them and one of the security witches threw a hex and I had to _Protego_ everyone just to keep them from killing each other.”

“Thanks.”

Ron grunted, a tiny, amused sound. “Thank me later, when Hermione’s making me sleep on the sofa. She hit the wall pretty hard,” he said ruefully. His smile faded. “I think Malfoy might have saved your life, making us bring you back. You were so… You looked—” He shook his head and swallowed. “What’s going on with you two? Have you… I don’t know, become friends lately?”

“Um.” Harry frowned, trying to recall; there was more of an answer there, but he wasn’t sure he could find it. “I mean, yes. Since _yesterday_ , Ron. Or the day before.” He rubbed his forehead. “Are we dating?”

“You and… Malfoy?” Ron asked after what felt like an extraordinarily long pause in what sounded like an extraordinarily measured voice. Harry nodded. “I don’t know, mate, are you?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, finally remembering that bit. “Or, we’re going to. Or something.”

“Okay,” Ron said cautiously. “Is it because of the dreams? The, uh, places you’re… going?”

“Dunno.” Harry shrugged, wishing Ron would leave so he could fall over and sleep. “Maybe. The dreams, uh.”

“He’s in them, yeah,” Ron said. “I got that.”

“Right, but also it’s him,” Harry said, feeling rather proud of how fully explained that felt, despite the look of bewilderment on Ron’s face.

Malfoy and Hermione re-entered. Hermione’s spine seemed to have unbent, just slightly. “It’s late, Ron. We need to let Harry sleep.”

“We’re going?” Ron asked, looking from Hermione to Malfoy, then back to Harry.

“It’s better,” she said, with only a faint tremor of unease. She looked at Harry. “Will you be okay with that?”

“Have I got a choice in the matter?” he asked wryly, biting back a yawn.

“No,” Malfoy put in, mouth pulling to the side in a hard grimace.

“Story of my life.” Harry shrugged with more nonchalance than he felt. “Go on, you two. I’ll see you when…” He snorted. “When Malfoy says, I guess.”

“Tomorrow,” Hermione promised. She leaned in to kiss his cheek. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ron unfolded himself from the bed and squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, mystified again but apparently willing to go with it. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Malfoy waited silently for them to leave. Without saying a word to Harry, he began the process of setting up the room as he had the previous night, crystals and candles pulled from his messenger bag to position in the air and set alight. Harry finished the last of his stew and Banished his tray. Someone, likely at the hospital, had helpfully removed his jacket and shoes and belt, so Harry laboriously shimmied out of his trousers and shirt and crawled under the covers in his boxers with the last dregs of his energy.

“Am I the only one who doesn’t get an explanation?” he finally asked when Malfoy got around to anointing the door with smoke.

“What were we doing in that last place?” Malfoy asked.

“We were…” Harry paused. “We were dating. I was a Quidditch player. You were...” Harry thought. “I think you might have been part Veela? And you were French.”

“I am part French,” Malfoy said distractedly.

“Of _course_ you are,” Harry said, rolling his eyes.

“And the other places?”

“Um.” Harry flushed. “There was a contract, like a marital contract sort of? To save the wizarding world, we had to… And then in the other, we were Auror partners again. I liked you,” he said thoughtfully. “I was excited to have an excuse to…”

“You wanted to stay.” Malfoy put out the glowing ends of his incense and faced Harry. “You wanted to stay in that last one. You didn’t even reach out to me in one of them.”

It sounded like an accusation. Harry bristled, or tried to; he felt like melting wax. “I’m _them_ while I’m there, Malfoy! And I didn’t know I _could_ call you.”

“But you’re still you.” Malfoy rubbed his face and sighed, suddenly looking as weary as Harry felt. His fingers investigated the gauze over his forehead and he winced, then cast a spell at himself that caused his face to relax. “I could barely find you because you… were enjoying it.” He let out a breath, looking rather young; there were violet smudges under his eyes. “Some part of you wanted to stay.”

Harry frowned, unable to deny it. He heard the rustle of clothing and felt Malfoy’s weight sink onto the mattress.

“That’s dangerous, Harry.” Harry snapped his eyes to Malfoy’s. Malfoy looked at him seriously. “The magic — whatever its original intent — is trying to funnel you into a different world. It’s like an unfocused hex that keeps searching for a person to land on so its purpose can be served. So it can _end_. You need to not let it.” He looked away, brow furrowed.

“It wasn’t intentional,” Harry said, but gave a stilted nod. He drew a breath, neck tense. “What do you think it is?”

“I—” He pressed his lips together, looking confused and angry.

“You want to keep it from me.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said immediately. For some reason, the lack of denial made Harry relax.

“Why?” Harry slid deeper under the sheets. He thought of Ron’s report of Malfoy at the hospital and said, “It’s asking for a lot of trust.”

There was a pause. “Isn’t it, though,” Malfoy said evenly.

“That's my answer?”

“I want my favours, Harry,” he said, adjusting his pillow. He picked up a sheaf of parchment from the nightstand and Harry recognised his own handwriting; that day’s work. “I’d also rather like that date.”

“They’re not the same thing?” Harry wondered aloud, slurring a bit. Malfoy snorted and Harry’s lips curved. “Is being mysterious going to help me?”

“It is when you’re so tired your eyes are crossing,” Malfoy said. He flicked Harry a glance, then lifted a set of slender, gold rimmed glasses and set them on the bridge of his nose. Harry stifled a splutter, and Malfoy’s tiny smirk twitched. He scanned the first page, and flipped it to the back of the stack.

“Go to sleep.”

“You wear glasses.”

“So do you. Go to sleep.”

“You’re an arsehole,” Harry said, trying to inject some real anger into it. He felt like he _should_ be angry. At the secrets, at the expectation of trust with nothing offered, at the fact that Malfoy had glasses when he’d bullied Harry for years about his — and the fact that they looked so good on him.. “I’m going to be furious in the morning,” he got out. “You’ll tell me stuff then.”

“Thanks for the warning. Go to sleep,” Malfoy said again. With no other recourse, Harry did.

***

There was a hand in his hair, a deep voice saying his name on a lowly murmured loop. Harry pried his eyes open and immediately pinched them shut at the flood of light in the room. He tried to talk but his voice was grainy; he cleared his throat and tried again.

“What time is it?”

“Almost two,” Malfoy said. The hand moved away from Harry’s brow.

“How long—?

“Nearly fourteen hours,” Malfoy said, a thread of amusement in his tone. “If you don’t count the two times you practically sleepwalked to use the loo. I suspect you’re hungry, and we still have a lot to do today.”

“Where’s the food?”

“Right here, if you’ll get off your lazy arse,” Malfoy said. Harry struggled up, forcing his eyes open again. His need to eat felt immediate but not overwhelmingly urgent like it had—

“Was it just last night?” Harry asked. He met Malfoy’s eyes. “Ron said you saved my life.”

“I— Didn’t.” Malfoy looked disturbed. “No.” He took a breath and changed the subject. “You had another one last night.”

Perplexed, Harry put his glasses on and pulled over the tray Malfoy offered, glancing at him and biting a chunk from a croissant. 

“It wasn’t hard to come out of,” he said slowly, once he’d swallowed. “And you were able to touch me, when I woke up.”

Malfoy held up a hand, a black leather kid glove fit around it. He smiled wryly, setting his hand back in his lap. “You weren’t responding to my voice, but I was reading you as here and thought it more polite not use Legilimency if I didn’t have to. And yes, it was just last night.”

“It didn’t make me feel sick, or anything,” Harry said, swallowing. “You touching me, I mean. Your… nearness. Why? And why am I not as hungry? I— jumped, or whatever, last night. Didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Malfoy said. His mouth quirked, and Harry searched his expression for a sign of regret, of embarrassment, but there was none. “And I’m not sure about your metabolism, but it’s slowed down since you came back from the,” his nose wrinkled almost delicately, “most recent place.”

Harry tried not to smile, feeling a bit smug. He stretched, more relaxed than he had been in days. “Should I write about that one, too?”

“Actually,” Malfoy said, looking hesitant, “something occurred to me.”

“And here I was just appreciating how much better I felt.” Harry sighed at Malfoy’s frown. “What.”

“Your notes are... incomplete.”

Harry stared at him. “No they’re not. I worked on those for nine bloody hours yesterday!”

“You left out how you felt during each of the interactions.” Malfoy looked away. “Which is pertinent.”

Two croissants gone, Harry took big bite of his waffle to stall. When he’d swallowed, he said, “What you would expect, probably. Turned on, angry, infatuated, confused, whatever.”

“But it’s not…” Malfoy’s lips pursed; he shook his head. “It’s more about your thoughts and impressions during them. I’m looking for something specific.”

“What?” Harry stabbed his fork in Malfoy’s direction. “You said you’d explain things this morning.”

“I can’t—” Malfoy cut himself off, head tilted just so. Harry smoothed his face into one of curiosity, he hoped, rather than frustration. He continued to work his way through his food, letting his silence linger. 

Slowly, like he was carefully choosing his words, Malfoy said, “I told Granger that because of the extreme intimacy of some of your jumps, and because,” here, he hesitated again, “because I had passed out too, last night when you apparated us, I thought that outward intervention could speed up what’s happening to you. I told her to work on getting answers from the fairy coven.”

Harry’s throat ran dry. For something to do, he took a gulp of his coffee. He tried to avoid looking at the bandage still on Malfoy’s forehead. “Why do you think you passed out, too?”

“I’m not sure. My best guess is that— Well, I’m involved in it, aren’t I? This is a world with a you and me as well.” He scowled a little at that, but there was no bite to it — at least not one directed at Harry.

“Am I endangering you, then?”

Malfoy looked at him intently. “No,” he said at last, so firmly that Harry didn’t believe him at all.

“Right.” Harry swallowed. “Okay. So what are you looking for that I need to write down?”

“I’m not sure.” Harry glared and Malfoy held up his hands defensively. “Honestly. I might know it when I see it—”

“See it?”

“We’ve established that I can't properly legillimise you while you're experiencing it,” Malfoy said. “But I’ve been considering things and realised last night that I should be able to each time, after the fact. The things you’ve seen will have gotten stored in your memory, _as_ you’ve seen them. I can sift through them as memories.” Harry opened his mouth and Malfoy, obviously anticipating his objection, hurried out, “I really do need as much information as I can get from you, Harry.”

Harry thought about it. The Veritaserum Malfoy seemed so intent on to build trust, the flirting from last night, their tentative plans, the way Malfoy had, by Ron’s account, been so worried… It still rankled, the idea of baring his thoughts and feelings in such a manner. He’d never liked having someone else in his head, and Malfoy might be his very last pick to give access to, no matter what else was going on between them. Perhaps _because_ of everything else that had gone on between them. There was a part of him that still couldn’t believe the ease with which they could relate, when they tried, couldn’t grasp that he didn’t hate Malfoy, and Malfoy didn’t hate him. It all felt as unrealistic as the jumps did.

But Malfoy was looking at him as though he knew exactly how Harry would respond, which bothered him too. More than he wanted to admit.

Harry wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Can you target the jumps? I don’t want you wandering around in my other memories.”

Malfoy sat up a little straighter. He nodded. “I can. I’m good.”

Harry looked at him a moment longer. Thoughts of how Malfoy would react — and sheer contrariness — encouraged him to say no.

“Okay,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Malfoy’s mouth formed a little ‘o,’ but before Harry could snatch the words back, he Vanished Harry’s tray and scooted his chair closer.

“Oi, I still had coffee left.”

“I’m sure Kreacher has an entire carafe downstairs.” Malfoy licked his lips. “Don’t be nervous,” he said, so nervously Harry smothered the urge to laugh. “I’ll— I’ll simply focus on last night, shall I? And then if you’re still uncomfortable, we can stop.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Harry said. It was a lie, but only a little one; Malfoy’s eagerness was muted but undeniable. Harry closed his eyes and took a breath, leaning his head back against his headboard. “Go ahead.”

He heard Malfoy’s answering breath, soft and almost still. It gusted warm against his cheek when Malfoy leaned closer, and Harry tightened his hands into fists, to prepare himself for—

 _Malfoy’s hands were steady, undoing the buttons of his robes._ But then, Harry thought with no small amount of bitterness, he had a lot of practice at it.

“What’s it to be tonight, Potter?” he asked archly, shrugging the robes off and discarding them in an elegant drape over the arm of Harry’s sofa.

Harry chuckled and undid his cufflinks. Malfoy shook his head, pausing in the act of removing his shirt to take Harry’s wrists, one and then the other, fingers nimble on the buttons of his cuffs. He moved his hand to Harry’s stomach, dragging his forefinger up those buttons too, before starting to flick them open at Harry’s throat.

“Do I have to let you know what I’m in the mood for each time?” Harry asked, letting Malfoy undress him as he wished. He stood pliant under his hands, and Malfoy’s mischievous grey eyes sought his every few seconds, like a child unwrapping a present.

“‘Course not,” he murmured. He shifted in, ducking his head into Harry’s throat. His breath tickled Harry’s pulse point, and he placed a soft kiss there. He ran the flat of his hand down over Harry’s exposed chest and stomach; opened Harry’s belt with a quiet _clink_ and slid it free from its loops. “We can do whatever you like.”

_Am I a…?_

Harry blinked at Malfoy’s voice, unsure how to answer the question. Malfoy’s hand had just found his cock through his trousers and was lightly massaging the growing bulge.

_A what?_

There was no answer, but there didn’t need to be because then Harry got it. Understood, a split second before Malfoy said, low in his ear, “It’s your knut, after all.”

_Oh._

_Yes, that,_ Malfoy said drily. _Interesting._

Interesting, yes, Harry thought with an odd sense of distance. He rocked his hips into the touch of Malfoy’s skillful fingers.

“Would you like to pretend to be virgins, Potter?” Malfoy continued. He took a nip of Harry’s earlobe, tongue warm on the spot when he licked it after. “I’ve done that. I make quite a believable virgin, you know. Want me to get out my old Slytherin robes sometime?”

“Yes,” Harry ground out. He slid a hand under the back of Malfoy’s shirt, fingers sinking into the lean muscle above the curve of his arse to press Malfoy closer. “But not tonight.”

“Mmm, no.” Lazy nibbles trailed down Harry’s jaw, where Malfoy tucked into his throat again. Harry shivered.

“I want you to trust me to do whatever I want to you tonight,” Harry said. Malfoy paused for a split second before resuming his tiny, practiced licks and bites down to Harry’s collarbone.

“Of course I do,” he said smoothly, a smile to his voice. But Malfoy was a consummate actor, Harry knew — he’d let himself be tied up and blindfolded for the right price, but he never really gave up control.

Six months of that had been _torture_ , Harry thought bleakly. He’d not expected, when they started this, that he might be the one who was finally forced to fold. Hadn’t expected to… to _feel_ so much about Malfoy. Hadn’t expected to be unable to slake his lust for him, or for it to only burn hotter with each appointment, with each hint of himself Malfoy exposed to Harry’s gaze.

Like the time he’d picked up a book on Harry’s nightstand, smoke curling up from the lit cigarette hanging from his lips after a long, deep fucking, and began talking about the plot as though it were a tried-and-true favourite. Or the time Harry had been running late, experimenting with cake flavours for Teddy’s fifth birthday, and Malfoy had simply rolled up his sleeves and chipped in, commenting only, “A bit of grated lemon rind would make that stand out.” 

They’d fucked after, on Harry’s kitchen table, flour dusting the air and their bodies, as Harry hiked up Malfoy’s legs with his forearms and ploughed into him. But that hadn’t been Harry’s favourite part of the night.

He… _wanted_ him.

 _Lovely,_ came Malfoy’s voice, thoughtfully snide.

Harry almost laughed, but the lump in his throat caught the sound. He wanted Malfoy, wanted to save him, to _keep_ him, and Malfoy didn’t want him back.

 _I doubt that’s true_.

_Stop._

Malfoy had gotten his trousers open; his fingers snuck into the placket of Harry’s pants. And Harry was so hard already, so hard for him, dick like a steel bar. He wanted to be _inside_ Malfoy, where it was warm and wet and tight and soft.

“Come on, Potter,” Malfoy teased when Harry didn’t move. “Tell me what you want to do to me. I trust you.”

Harry slid his hands up to Malfoy’s hair, twisting them them into it; the strands were silky against his palms. He jerked Malfoy’s head away and looked at him, and the playful expression faded from Malfoy’s gaze, replaced with something sharper and more honest, a wariness Harry had only caught glimpses of once or twice.

“Then trust me,” he said, and lowered his head to kiss him.

Malfoy stilled — he had no rules about kissing, as far as Harry knew, and they had done, before, but he stayed expressionless, going tight in anticipation, objection rolling from his body in waves. Harry growled; he didn’t want it that way. He jerked Malfoy’s head to the side, landing his kiss on Malfoy’s jawline and recovered from his disappointment by grazing warm skin with his teeth and running his tongue down the tense cordage of Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy trembled, relaxing when Harry didn’t seek his mouth again, and Harry thought, _If only he’d—_. But his thoughts were swept away when Malfoy’s body surged against his, a low moan issuing from his throat, fingers going tight on Harry’s cock. Harry peeled them off and turned him in his arms until Malfoy’s arse pressed against his groin.

He wanted to make it _so good_ for Malfoy, wanted to give him a reason to see Harry as different than his other clients, wanted to leave him a puddle of exposed nerves. Wanted to make him feel the same way Harry’d felt, the first time Malfoy had taken an appointment with him, a disaster of limp pleasure and bereft longing.

“ _Trust me,_ ” he whispered again, wanting—

 _Enough_ , Malfoy said, sounding on edge. He hadn’t said that last night, Harry realised. He blinked his eyes open, disconcerted to be back in his bedroom as he felt the smooth slip of Malfoy’s presence from his mind.

“Oh,” Harry said. He breath came too fast and he gulped a bit to try to get it under control. “That was… You really are good at that,” he mumbled. He was hard as a rock. “I didn’t even notice that it...started.”

Malfoy’s throat was blotchy and his chest rose and fell too quickly. “I work in Brain,” he said breathlessly.

“Why’d you stop? Weren’t you looking for something?”

“Impressions, mostly. Your state of mind, I think. It’s hard to describe,” Malfoy said with a frown, a muscle near his eye ticcing. “I saw what I needed to. We don't need to do any more.”

“We don't?” Harry didn’t know whether to be disappointed or grateful. He looked down at his lap and back up, face flaming hotter when he saw that Malfoy had followed his gaze. “Sorry.”

“No, ah, don’t be,” Malfoy said. He laughed, a little hoarsely. It was strangely charming in its awkwardness. Harry was fascinated by Malfoy’s fluster, a swell of something warm he couldn’t define rising in his chest.

“We’re not allowed to touch,” he checked.

Malfoy swallowed, eyes flaring hot. “No.”

Stupid. It was stupid. Harry wasn’t going to do it.

“You have a glove on,” he said.

Letting go a breath, Malfoy gave him a hard look and cleared his throat. “I don’t think…” His frown deepened. “The intimacy of it might… It’s not smart.”

“Right. After, you said.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway, I’ve been with you so many times already, I don’t know why it’s so hard not to right now.”

“That’s not me,” Malfoy said tightly. One high cheekbone stood out, like he was chewing the inside of his cheek; his mouth twisted in a way Harry used to think looked cruel and now seemed conflicted. “We haven’t.”

“No.” Harry nodded at the truth of it and swallowed. “I still want to.”

“Shit,” Malfoy muttered, under his breath. He closed his eyes and gave an unhappy little laugh, as if he couldn’t believe their conversation any more than Harry could. “Shut your bloody mouth for a second.”

Harry sighed, plucking at his sheets. “You said we have a lot to do today?”

“Just… shut up.”

Harry frowned but fell obediently silent, watching Malfoy breathe quietly. He opened his eyes, landing them on Harry’s face searchingly, like he was making a decision.

“Let me try something,” he said, with a little lift of his wand.

“Okay.” Harry forced himself not to stiffen at Malfoy’s wand directed at him. “What?”

“Just… Let me,” he said, and it sounded so much like Harry’s own voice asking Malfoy to trust him in his most recent jump, his chest felt tight.

“...Go ahead.”

“I won’t touch you, Harry,” Malfoy said. His eyes gleamed; his teeth sank into his bottom lip. “But—”

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry said on a light, lingering moan. He shifted, feeling a soft spike of pleasure first in his mind, then flowing down through his neck and torso and limbs like the slide of water before sensation pooled in his prick. It had started to soften a bit, but went stiff again, pressing up against the rumpled sheets. His thighs tensed. “Is that your…?”

“My magic,” Malfoy confirmed quietly. “Concentrated in a certain spot in your brain.” Harry struggled to keep his neck from going loose under the onslaught, bright bursts of feeling skimming over his shaft like a teasing finger, a tongue. Malfoy inhaled sharply. “Let me know if you start to feel like you do before a jump, and I’ll stop.”

“Don’t stop,” Harry choked out.

Malfoy made a small, muffled sound. Harry looked over and found Malfoy’s hooded gaze on him as he writhed, hands fisting in the sheets because it was _so good_. He felt the push of _more_ against his mind like an offering, and nodded.

“Yes,” he gasped.

“Yes, what, Harry?” Malfoy’s voice had roughened, lowered, and Harry’s body reacted to that as much as the spell weaving through him.

“More,” he said. “Give me, _unh,_ yes— _ah!_ ”

It swept through him faster, harder, his balls prickling, his skin growing almost too sensitive. The sheet was cumbersome, a distraction, so Harry shoved it down, and then his boxers too, squirming against the pulse of pleasure until they were around his thighs. Malfoy exhaled, loud and shaky. “I can make you come like this,” he said, voice barely audible over the sound of Harry’s gasps but mesmerising, strained, the clipped syllables turned soft and blurry, like they tasted good on his tongue. “You don’t even have to touch yourself if you don’t want.”

“ _God_ ,” Harry groaned. Even the distinctive tingle of Malfoy’s magic felt good, tangled amongst everything else Harry couldn’t focus on; there was too much. Harry fisted his hands, pressing them against the outside of his thighs, trying to decide. His cock jerked — once, twice — smearing precome against his belly. His buttocks clenched and his hands slid to the tops of his thighs; they were lightly sheened with sweat. He rubbed his palms over them, trying to resist the urge to touch himself yet. A tiny, fluttering brush of magic swept down from his balls, over the seam of his crack, and pressed there. “M-Malfoy—”

“But I’ve thought about it,” Malfoy admitted in that same voice. “I’ve thought about it. About watching you pull yourself off. Thought about how your face would look when you came, how your cock would look. How you liked to touch yourself. I’d like to see.”

Another groan tore from Harry’s throat and he gave in, _had_ to, hand scrambling to curl around his erection. He was so hard it _hurt_ , but it resembled the pleasure-pain he remembered from the world where he’d taken orders from Malfoy every Friday night.

He tried roll on his side to give Malfoy the show he'd asked for but somehow continued onto his belly, pumping his cock with mere twitches even as he trapped his hand between himself and the mattress. Malfoy’s eyes went nearly black, and Harry gave in to the need for friction. He humped against the mattress, pulsing tiny squeezes around his cock with his fist and pressing his cheek against the skewed pillow to spear Malfoy with a look. Through crooked glasses pressing against his cheek, he could see Malfoy's jaw was like granite, his eyes steely and focused. Harry could make out the long line of his erection in his trousers, pointing toward his thigh.

“Show me,” Harry managed, rolling his hips harder. He flicked his eyes up to Malfoy’s face, taut with repressed desire, slender lower lip gone plump and pink, then back down to Malfoy’s crotch. Malfoy shuddered; his wand dipped and rose again, and Harry closed his eyes at the blast of pleasure fizzing wild over his skin. His cock rubbed a damp spot against his sheets, twitched and leaked harder. He closed his eyes and breathed through it, but forced them open at the rustle of clothing, the sound of a zip.

“Merlin,” Malfoy muttered, already reaching into his trousers. He pulled his cock out; it was lovely and long and pink, shiny at the tip. He shifted, working his trousers lower, then his pants, to hook the elastic under his balls. He licked his lips, eyes flicking to Harry’s as he gripped his cock with his gloved hand. He kept his wand trained on Harry with the other as he began to stroke himself with long, swift pulls, and Harry moaned at the look of it, the sound. The black leather kid glove gave an erotic, filthy contrast to the deep flush of Malfoy's prick and nest of sandy curls at his groin. The lines of tension outside his eyes increased; the flush over the blades of his cheekbones darkened.

“Harder,” Harry told him. “Wank yourself harder.” He obeyed his own words mindlessly, rutting against the bed like a teenager. Malfoy blew out a hard breath and twitched his wand, curling his thumb around the crown of his cock on each tug as he coordinated his movements in time with Harry’s. Harry tensed; his toes curled as sensation flooded hot in his mind and traversed down the same paths of his skin to where the press behind his balls teased. It shifted, sliding up, up, and Malfoy said, “Do you li— Uh. _Uhh._ Harry—”

Harry pried his free hand from the sheets and reached back to open himself up. Malfoy cursed, a gutteral sound of lust and longing, his cock dripping out a long, clinging string of precome, and then Harry felt his magic, slipping in with no trouble, _inside_ , where he wanted, brushing exquisitely over his prostate. 

“Oh, _fuck_ —” he breathed. “F-fuck me with it, _uh!_ ”

Malfoy's head fell forward, lips parting, breath exploding loudly from him. His eyes locked on Harry as he worked his foreskin back and forth with a tight clutch and thumbed the leaking tip of his prick, smearing the moisture around the head with leather. His strokes sped up until his hand was a blur, the swollen crown of his cock poking through his fist, and when he came suddenly, he seemed almost surprised. He huffed a loud breath and a soft cry, his long body curling inward on itself, thighs hard and trembling in his trousers as he caught the sticky ropes of his release in his glove.

Harry moaned, feeling Malfoy's magic slip out of his mind, his body, as he lost focus, but it didn't matter. His balls were high, and his maddeningly stiff cock had been rubbing against his bed for too long. Malfoy moved his hand as if trying to summon the energy to raise his wand again, but it was too late; Harry pressed his face to the pillow, glasses shoved crookedly onto his forehead, hips grinding down. He heard himself say Malfoy's name, muffled, as he started to come, his sheets going hot and wet under his jerking thrusts.

It took about a year, but Harry finally found the strength to lift his face, resting his cheek against the pillow so he could gauge Malfoy, whose face was lax with astonishment, wand dangling loose at his side. His cock, not quite soft yet, rested over the open flies of his trousers, damp and gleaming. His hair was darker at the scalp with perspiration and his pupils were shot, eyes trained on—

Harry bit his lip, a small, self conscious laugh bursting forth as he wriggled his boxers up over his exposed arse. Malfoy blinked; his gaze flew to Harry's face. Harry wet his lips and sat up, a little shaky as his adrenaline dropped. He wondered if he had something to apologise for when Malfoy grimaced, looking drawn, and zipped a hasty cleaning spell over himself, then tucked his cock away, upper lip catching between his teeth.

“It's not as easy as it felt, is it?”

Malfoy didn't pretend not to know what Harry meant. “No. It's… It takes effort.”

“Well, it was, uh.” Harry swallowed and attempted a smile. “I see why they hired you.”

“If nothing else, I’d appreciate if you didn’t believe I did that to the hiring committee,” Malfoy said with a croaky sort of snort. Harry tugged the sheet over himself and sat up. The wet spot seeped into the back of his pants and he tried not to wince. 

Malfoy took a breath, watching him. More reservedly, he said, “That wasn’t smart.”

“Okay.” Harry paused. “Why?”

Malfoy made an abortive gesture to run his hand through his hair. With a rueful little laugh, he peeled off his ruined glove, Vanishing it with a twitch from his wand and curling his fingers closed. “Because I can’t really touch you until this is settled,” he said in a level tone, meeting Harry’s eyes, “and now I want to even more.”

“Oh,” Harry said, blinking cleverly. “Well. This is going to suck.”

“Not for a while, unfortunately.”

Harry started; chuckled. He’d probably be mortified once he had the chance to think about what happened — the abrupt way their natural tension had pivoted; the shock of his own brazenness — but right now all he felt was a tired flicker of amusement. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t get impatient,” Malfoy said. He rose, legs unsteady, and used the back of the chair to prop himself up. “That’s not on the table, either.”

“I remember us being good on a table,” Harry said boldly.

Malfoy caught Harry’s eye with a wan smile. He turned his head, sharp features strangely vulnerable in profile, and murmured, “I think we might be good a lot of places.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Her works referenced in this chapter: [_The Triwizard Champions_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13641552)
> 
> Magpie's AU tumblr prompts series can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/936696)! :D


	5. Chapter 5

“This is… a lot of chopping,” Harry said. He stared down at the array of plants, decomposing meat, and stones that emitted a magical hum. He mourned a simpler time, only minutes ago, when he'd had the freedom to let his eyes seek out Malfoy across the room.

“It’ll keep you busy,” Malfoy said with a sniff. He handed Harry a smock covered with a thick moisture-repellant charm, and a pair of goggles.

“I don't need to be this busy,” Harry said uselessly, slipping the smock on and tying it at the small of his back. “Are you even going to use any of these?”

“Not a single one,” Malfoy said with satisfaction. “Which is why I’m letting you touch them. I can have them checked over later by a group of interns.”

“I’m lower than a group of interns to you,” Harry said. Malfoy nodded in an abstract way, handing Harry a knife edged with silver. He pointed to the first group of ingredients, which had an insultingly patronising list in front of it: _Fine slice. Place separate ingredients in separate containers. Do not eat._

Harry looked at him suspiciously. “Why can’t I go back to reading?”

“Because you weren't,” Malfoy said. “You're distracting me.”

Which was, okay, true. Harry’d known it. Wanted to, maybe. He couldn’t wrap his brain around going from the intimacy of sharing his bed, his memories, that _sex_ with Malfoy before they’d come in, to… this. And Malfoy had been right — the books he’d checked out were complete rot, boring and dense, with no information found when he’d spelled them to highlight specific words, not _fate_ or _destiny_ or _world jumping._ He did find a couple of pretty detailed sections on _sex dreams_ , but it was mostly supposition about the nocturnal emissions of male fairies from adolescence, when their wings began to sprout, through adulthood, when their semen supposedly lit up to match the colour of their life mate’s sexual fluids. 

How they compared, Harry didn’t want to know.

And he _really_ didn’t want to remember the excerpt about mating he’d finally read.

So he'd let his mind wander a bit, to the way Malfoy's cock jerked in his gloved fist — he’d conjured an identical one, as if _that_ was any help getting Harry to focus — to his heavy, gasping sighs when he came, information Harry had never really considered having. But it easily translated to a desire for more, so he'd spent a good portion of their time since coming in on studying how Malfoy's arse bunched as he moved around lab with his robes off. 

Malfoy's neck hadn't stopped blushing for an hour.

And now there was decomposing meat.

Sighing, Harry began slicing some Dittany stems. After watching Harry narrowly until he’d gotten through the first group and, pointedly, placed them in the small ceramic bowl with the card proclaiming _Dittany_ , Malfoy gave a curt nod and moved off.

“Distracting me from being bored by giving me something boring to do is your plan?”

Malfoy put on his set of goggles. “You’re not bored.”

“Oh no?” _Slice, slice, slice._ Already Harry wanted to conduct target practice with Malfoy’s chest and the knife in his hand. “What am I?”

“Trouble, usually.” Malfoy’s weirdly magnified eyes slipped down the length of Harry’s body. Harry held his breath, hands stilling. “And—”

Four loud bangs on the door pulled them out of their staring contest. Malfoy shifted his gaze to the door for a split second, then yanked his goggles off and moved past him swiftly, a brush of air against Harry’s side, and pulled open the door.

“Hermione!” Harry dropped the knife and followed her angry strides over to Malfoy's couch, where she sat with a hard exhale.

“She's not just a fairy,” Hermione announced. Her face was pink with vexation, half her hair limply caught up in her customary pins. The rest dangled, windswept, about her face, and smelled of ocean salt.

“I’m okay, I’m fine, stop,” she said, batting at Harry’s hands. He made himself stop checking for injuries and Hermione shoved something at Malfoy, who, crouching before her, took it with a stupefied look on his face.

“It’s a ribbon,” he said. He displayed it to Harry. It was slender and black. Unremarkable. It looked like a normal hair ribbon. Except— 

“It’s hers,” Harry blurted, carefully taking it from Malfoy. Hermione nodded, then breathlessly accepted the glass of water Malfoy summoned from his desk.

She drank and wiped her mouth. “Yeah. The fairy coven finally came through.”

“Came through?” Harry asked sceptically. The ribbon held traces of the fairy’s magic, sweet and sour, like the taste of her potion. He murmured as much, and Malfoy’s gaze locked on his.

“It feels like her potion?” he demanded. He looked over his shoulder at the potions he was working on in various states of readiness, then to Hermione. Harry nodded, mystified by the way Malfoy's eyes narrowed.

Malfoy pressed two fingers to his eyelids, then pulled his glasses from his inside pocket. He slipped them on with a sigh. He twitched his fingers at Harry, and Harry passed over the ribbon again for his inspection. “How did you get them to cooperate?” 

“I yelled at them,” she said. Malfoy blinked, turning a quizzical glance to Harry, who nodded; it made perfect sense to him, really. 

“You _went there?_ ” Malfoy’s tone was accusatory, and she huffed.

“You said we needed something from them, and no one else was getting the job done,” Hermione said, crossing her arms. 

“Don't even try,” Harry advised from the corner of his mouth when it looked like Malfoy was about to reproach her. That Malfoy was so obviously appalled by the risk she'd taken made Harry's insides clench pleasantly.

“I may have also played up the whole ‘Harry saving magical creatures from Voldemort’s plans’ angle, Hermione continued. “They asked for a lock of his hair to verify he'd been cast over. He had. They kept it,” she went on apologetically. “They thought it was interesting, and it helped soften them enough that the matriarch was willing to give information.”

“Please never tell me why you had a lock of my hair,” Harry said as Malfoy gaped. “Can they perform blood magic on me now or something?” Hermione blinked and he squeezed her hand. “It’s fine, really—”

“That’s _all?_ ” Malfoy burst out, exasperated. “A lock of his fucking hair and this mess is fixed? I’ll give them all the hair on his head if it’ll stop him from—” He raised his wand as if about to hex Harry bald. Startled, Harry drew back.

“It didn’t _fix_ anything,” Hermione grimaced, her jaw hardening mutinously. “They just gave us the ribbon. Which will help in summoning Harry’s fairy. But not without her name, which… they wouldn't give me.” She briskly undid her hair and started straightening the immediate fluff of curls that it turned into once it was released from its remaining pins.

“Why?” Malfoy pulled his upper lip between his teeth, looking stymied.

“How is she not just a fairy?” Harry asked.

“She's a Feeder,” Hermione explained. To Malfoy, she said, “They last gave her name to someone seeking her skills but have since learned he tried to cheat her, and her fairy heritage — her mother was a half fairy — grants her a certain amount of protection from them even if they don't approve of her way of life.”

“It was Barclay, wasn't it?” Harry frowned at Malfoy, who looked exceedingly disturbed.

“More importantly, what's a feeder?” Malfoy murmured. “And what’s her way of life?” 

“Her father was…” Hermione made a high pitched sound, full of snapping little clicks with her tongue. “Half wizard, half Lilin. An Incubus.” 

Malfoy groaned. “This gets better and better.” 

“They're not really _demons,_ ” Hermione said practically. “That's just folklore. But her mother was a wise woman of the coven, half witch, a Seer, and…” She sighed. “I think it's safe to assume that she's, um, draining from you,” she said to Harry. “The matriarch told me to let them know if we find out definitively; she'll lose what little standing she still has — they have strict rules about taking what hasn't been offered. But she did say that it's impossible to cast over someone who hasn't either expressed a need to or made a deal with them.”

Malfoy's gaze swung to his and Harry held his palms up defensively. “I offered her _nothing._ ”

“This is it,” Malfoy muttered, rather desolately. “I always wondered what it was like for you three in school. How depressing.”

Harry snorted. “S’not like you don't get anything out of it.”

“But I can't collect until I've gotten you out of this, which it looks like I can’t,” Malfoy said, sounding unfairly put out.

“Not exactly what I meant,” Harry mumbled. 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. So did Hermione. 

Harry flushed and cleared his throat. “Anyway, what can we do now?” 

“Nothing,” Hermione said, still looking back and forth between them. “Summoning her is fairly simple, but we need her name. Our best hope is for Barclay to wake up.”

“I’ll firecall Blaise,” Malfoy said. “He can take another look and see… I don't know.”

“So my best chance of getting out of this is for a wizard — who is in a magical coma — to wake up and tell us the name of the magic-eating part-fairy who's spelled me into a variety of otherworlds for some reason none of us know?” Harry asked. “Or for Malfoy to come up with a potion to counteract the one I've taken?” 

Hermione frowned but gave a reluctant nod. “You've beat far worse odds,” she said after a beat.

“And now we're comparing this to ‘worse odds,’” Harry said. “Fantastic.”

***

The call from St. Mungo’s came after dinner.

Malfoy sat on Harry's sofa, eating takeaway from a Chinese food container, waving his chopsticks in the air and dropping bits of food on the rug with every emphatic gesture he made as he spoke. Harry tamped down on his irritation and tried to focus, because despite Malfoy’s promise to shut up about it over dinner, he apparently had a lot of thoughts he absolutely needed to share.

“—it’s absolutely a problem, because I’ve been taking your word literally and using honeysuckle in everything I’ve been trying, or various ingredients that might neutralise it.” A splat of lo mein hit the edge of the coffee table and Malfoy sighed, relief mingling with exasperation on his face. “So now I’m thinking, if I can get a read on her magic from what’s _leftover_ from the potion, then I may be able to recreate it. And if I come with you, I think you’ll bear up better under the desire to engage if I’m more than a voice in your head. Which has been one of my primary concerns, really.” He paused uncomfortably, noodles slithering from between the sticks to hit Harry's sofa cushion and slide to the floor. “Since before you considered staying when you found a peaceful enough otherworld ...Are you listening?”

“Yeah. No. I mean—” Harry huffed. “Could you be more careful?”

Malfoy huffed back. “This is _impor—_ Careful?”

Harry pulled his wand and vanished the food pointedly, scowling at a stubborn stain of sauce on the cushion. “When I said we should bring dinner in here, I didn't mean to imply I wanted to decorate with it.”

Blinking, Malfoy looked down and back up. “You have an elf.”

“Who’s so old he occasionally instructs me on the exact placement and positioning of where his head should go after he's left the ‘cruel world,’” Harry said. “And anyway, I don't like it.”

Malfoy's eyebrow rose. He set the chopsticks back in the container. “It really bothers you?”

Harry looked at him suspiciously. “Don't get any ideas.”

“I always have ideas; it doesn't mean I'm going to barrel ahead with them. That's rather more your style, I think.” He vanished the stain that Harry couldn't get to fade and smirked. “You just need to know the right spells.” Peering closely at Harry, he said, “You don't dress like you're bothered by mess. You barely bother to shave.”

Harry sighed and took a bite of an eggroll as he considered how to answer — and whether it was Malfoy's business. “I was raised to keep things— neat,” he said awkwardly.

“Ah, yes, I read the Skeeter interview with your Muggles.” Malfoy picked up the chopsticks again and resumed eating, tucking the container under his chin with exaggerated deference, to Harry's annoyance. “They sound like lovely people.”

Harry grimaced. “Well, I went the other way a bit, in school; didn't care much. But when I took over Grimmauld Place… I found I liked it. Things being kept clean. And I picked that sofa myself, less than a year ago. The rug, too.”

“Hm.”

“What? I shower and and my clothes are clean. Maybe I could make more of an effort with shaving, but—”

“I didn't say that,” Malfoy interrupted hastily, eyes turning to study the ceiling.

Harry’s irritation faded into uncertainty. “Wait, what did you say about following me?”

Malfoy put a hand to his brow, muttering something under his breath. He stabbed his chopsticks into the container. 

Indifferently, he drawled, “Nothing at all, really. Just that I'm working on a groundbreaking form of potions physics to save your arse so you won't feel the momentary temptation to leave your perfectly comfortable life because of Veela lure.”

“I'm not _tempted_ to—” He broke off at Malfoy's pointed silence, running what he could remember of Malfoy’s commentary through his head. “Fine. But wouldn't it be dangerous to follow?”

“Probably no more dangerous than what I'm already doing,” Malfoy said blithely. At the look on Harry's face, he hurried on, “Which is to say not very.”

Unconvinced, Harry opened his mouth. Malfoy set his jaw mulishly. Harry scratched his neck. Malfoy’s eyes darted to the gesture and he relaxed, bringing up another mouthful of noodles.

Harry let out a slow breath. “ _Can_ you recreate it?”

“Not the red portion. It’s the part that’s spell-based, I think.” Malfoy _tch_ ed quietly, a small scowl pursing his lips.

“Hermione's good with potions. Maybe she could—”

“Don't be absurd. Granger may be brilliant, but she's got nothing on my expertise. Most of her work is done in—” Malfoy made the weird choking sound Harry remembered from Hermione's first few weeks as an Unspeakable, before she became accustomed to not talking about her work.

He let it go and lifted one brow. “Did you just call Hermione brilliant? Can I tell her?”

“Absolutely not,” Malfoy said crisply. His mouth twitched up around the corners.

Harry didn't know what to _do_ with that smile; it was blatantly unfair that Malfoy should be able to look so deviously warm, even playful, the aristocratic angles of his face softening to such a degree. Harry'd long since gotten used to noticing him — the leanness of him, his height, the way his slender body narrowed at the waist and hip. For all Malfoy’s natural, disdainful grace, he was also obnoxiously hot, and Harry had come to terms with that fact long ago. 

But this gentle flutter was something else, this tug inside Harry’s chest, and it still rattled him, setting him off balance.

He cleared his throat. “Well who else could help you who’s as invested?”

“She's not that either.”

“What?”

Malfoy hiccoughed and grabbed a glass of water, gulping rather frantically. His cheeks were flushed. “I just mean— she's not experiencing it like you are, so she couldn't be.”

Harry stared at him, a vaguely maddened voice whispering in his head that he was missing something big. “She went to Ireland and harassed a coven of fairies for me.”

“Right, no.” Malfoy nodded. “I just meant—”

Harry leaned forward. “What _did_ you mean?”

The blue St. Mungo’s medallion resting on Harry’s coffee table chimed, colour pulsing bright. Malfoy exhaled hard as Harry scrambled for it.

“Barclay’s awake,” he said, looking up to see Malfoy had already summoned his shoes to slip them on. Harry summoned his jacket and stood, hastily shoving himself into it. “Floo?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Malfoy assured him. He waved his wand in a wide circle around the remains of their food, vanishing it all with a slight smile. Harry looked at him curiously. “So it doesn’t bother you, when we get back.”

***

Blaise met him in the hall, looking rather grim.

“I may not have used... the the most legal method,” he said, blocking Harry’s path. “But Draco said you’d have my back if it worked.” Harry pursed his lips but nodded, and Blaise continued, “So I was _never here_. Got it?”

Harry nodded again, turning when he heard Draco step up beside him. He was frowning. “You didn't do something that might make it difficult for him to communicate, right?”

“Why are you still wearing that bandage?” Blaise asked. Malfoy brought up one hand to touch it and shrugged.

“Can he not communicate?” he repeated.

“No, he can, but—” Blaise looked around the deserted hallway. “My mother had a potion—”

Malfoy gave a low whistle. “When I said you could step outside the law, I didn’t expect—” he said. 

“It’s not hurt him, though, right?” Harry interrupted, promptly deciding he didn’t want to know any more. 

“Not the potion,” Blaise said. “But the effects of whatever else happened are rearing their head. I need to go.”

Harry and Malfoy exchanged a glance. Harry nodded his thanks and set off down the hall as Malfoy said his goodbyes or, for all Harry knew, came up with Blaise’s alibi. 

The sound of the disturbance hit Harry as he rounded the corner. He quickened his pace to Barclay’s room just in time to see Barclay knock over an empty pitcher as he reached for the attending mediwitch. He was crying hoarsely, grasping at her robes. A dark patch of blood seeped out from the bandages covering his jaw, and his words were garbled.

“Please, _please_ —!” His eyes were wild, tears coursing down his sunken cheeks. He barely resembled the barrel-chested wizard Harry had met on Diagon and Knockturn a couple of weeks prior; his weathered skin was grey, the weakness of his body apparent in his jerky motions and wasted frame. “Cora,” he slurred out with a sob. “Cora.”

“Shh, Mr Barclay, please let me administer a sedative potion,” the witch said. “If you’ll just— Please, your jaw—” 

With the same force he pulled her to him, he now shoved her away, knocking her into a rolling tray with a variety of bandages and potion vials. “I need Cora!”

“Cora?” Malfoy’s voice in his ear made Harry jump and he turned his head to acknowledge him without taking his eyes off the scene.

“His wife,” he murmured, pulling his wand and wondering how he should best intervene. 

“Ah, yes.” Malfoy stepped forward without warning and pointed his wand, issuing a soft spell under his breath. Mr Barclay’s tension eased and he sagged back into his mattress, still weeping quietly, breath hitching. He buried his face in one hand.

“Mr Malfoy!” The mediwitch drew herself up. She was small but stared at him with fierce disapproval. “That is not an approved healing spell, I’m quite sure!”

“We have complete jurisdiction over Mr Barclay’s case, including medical treatments, if need be,” Harry told her, stepping forward. “Malfoy is an Unspeakable. I’m sure he chose the sedation spell with careful consideration to keeping Barclay unharmed.”

“I don’t have any verification of that, Mr Potter,” she said, scowling down at her parchment. “Having access to his room and being alerted as to his progress is all I see.” Harry looked calmly at her, moving to Barclay’s bedside, and her scowl faded into confusion. “I’ll have to check.”

“You do that. Call the Minister personally in the morning if you like,” Harry said gently.

“I will,” she snapped. She pursed her lips, then took a breath and removed Barclay’s saturated bandage, casting him wary looks as she worked. Barclay sat still for it, lost in his own tears as she swiftly knitted the skin tight with her wand, muttering something about the damage to his muscle, then spread a pungent salve over the angry, seeping wound and replaced his bandage with a clean one. 

Harry waited until she was nearly finished casting diagnostic charms before speaking again. “Was he like that as soon as he woke up?”

“No,” she said after a tense pause. “He’s been awake for no more than ten minutes, and the first were spent in general confusion. He began to get agitated when he asked after his wife and I didn’t answer him immediately.”

“He asked for his wife?” Malfoy asked, head cocked thoughtfully to the side.

“Yes,” she said curtly. The diagnostic shimmer of her spell faded. “I told him I would have the Healer come in and talk to him and he got upset.” Her face screwed up and she opened her mouth again, but seemed to rethink whatever she’d been about to say. “He’s to remain calm if possible. Please allow me to administer potions if he gets upset again.”

“Of course,” Malfoy said, so smoothly that Harry bit back a snort. She nodded haltingly and strode out with a final glare at Malfoy, which seemed to amuse him.

“You have total jurisdiction over his medical treatment?” Malfoy murmured.

“Will have by morning,” Harry said unrepentantly. “ _That_ you can attribute to Chosen One status, if you like.” He smiled at Malfoy’s scoff and amended, “But mostly just because Kingsley and Robards trust me. I’ll firecall them before bed.”

Malfoy’s smirk disappeared, his gaze set on Barclay. “He didn’t know his wife wasn’t here.”

Harry swallowed. “I guess not.” He sighed. “Maybe memory loss because of the accident?”

“Maybe,” Malfoy said, unconvinced.

Not liking where his thoughts were headed, Harry pulled up a chair and scooted close to Barclay’s bedside. He patted his shaking shoulder soothingly. “Mr Barclay? Do you remember me?”

Barclay didn’t look up, but spoke into his hand. “Cora…”

Malfoy came closer to him on the opposite side of the bed.

“What about her, Mr Barclay?” he asked with such kindness that Harry’s mouth went dry. His hand ran down Barclay’s arm to cover his free hand, resting in a fist on his thigh. Barclay flinched the contact, but loosened his hand and turned it to cling to Malfoy’s, who simply clutched back at him with equal strength.

Harry gripped the bedrail, looking away. The world flashed dizzy around him, his cheeks and the back of his neck hot, and when he looked back to see Malfoy staring at him in concern, he realised he had made a sound; a gasp or a moan, or just a breath indicating some sort of distress.

“I’m okay,” he assured Malfoy. Then again, steadier, when Malfoy’s knitted brow didn’t smooth, “Really. I’m okay.”

Malfoy eyed him and nodded briefly. He looked back down at Barclay, and even that twitched oddly through Harry, that instant belief in Harry’s honesty, in his capability to manoeuvre within a situation if he felt himself in danger. The world tilted again, righted. Unlike the last week, though, there was no sense of disorientation, no nausea accompanying it. He let out an exhale and focussed on what Malfoy was saying.

“—tell me about her? Her smile is beautiful; I’ve seen a picture. She looks very happy in it.”

“Beautiful,” Barclay echoed brokenly. He sounded like a child, bewildered and in need of comfort. “My Cora. Happiest witch.” He sniffed. “I had…” His next words slurred and he grimaced, hand sliding to touch his jaw. “I found… We were seven when we met.”

“You’d been together your whole lives,” Malfoy said encouragingly. He darted a glance to Harry, jerking his chin. Harry sat back, sliding his chair away to give them space.

“Whole lives,” Barclay mumbled. His eyes were still wet but he seemed calmer, though he still trembled. His hand shifted in Malfoy’s, tightening, and Harry raised his eyebrows with admiration; the tips of Malfoy’s long fingers were turning pink in Barclay’s hand, but his face didn’t flicker for a single moment. “We were children. Won’t...without... I found— I need—”

“What is it you found?” Malfoy hesitated, the tip of his wand showing unobtrusively against the inside of his wrist. “What were you looking for?”

“ _Her_ ,” Barclay got out, chest heaving again. A low wail wrenched free from his throat and he looked at Malfoy pleadingly. “I found her, I _found_ her, you have to let me— she’s...soulmate, the only reason I had for— I have to— to go find—”

Malfoy drew his hand away from Barclay with a suddenness that left Harry blinking. He massaged his palm, not looking at Harry, face gone stony and removed. Barclay sagged into the bed, bereft, tears streaking once more down his cheeks.

“Where did you find her?” Harry asked at Malfoy’s ongoing, strained silence, though he already knew the answer.

“Everywhere,” Barclay whispered hoarsely.

***

Harry blew out a breath as Malfoy marched around his room, smoke wafting after him. It bore no resemblance to his measured casting of the previous nights; his movements were rough and jerky, scattered. He kept pausing, muttering to himself and repeating the same motions.

 _“Enough,”_ Harry ordered, confusion reaching a breaking point. Malfoy barely faltered, not bothering to stop and look in his direction. Harry got up from the bed where Malfoy had deposited him with a pointed finger and grabbed at the sleeve of his robes. His vision blurred, settled, and he looked into Malfoy's eyes. Malfoy looked away.

“Don't do that, it's not safe,” he muttered. He turned away and Harry grabbed him again, one hand one Malfoy's shoulder to spin him ‘round.

“Then fucking _talk_ to me,” Harry said with barely-controlled frustration. “You can't just—”

“He was done for the night.” Malfoy took a step back but, warily, kept his eyes on Harry this time. “You saw. You _heard_ ,” he added.

Harry thought about the loud growls issuing from Barclay's stomach, about the moment his grief changed to the painful hunger Harry had gotten so familiar with over the last several days.  
Malfoy had barely paused to cast some other spell at him before striding out, leaving Harry to follow. He'd stopped to order a full, high-calorie meal for Barclay on the way out, glaring with real threat when the mediwitch tried to object that he shouldn't be on solids for at least another few days, until she turned and tapped the meal-order form with her wand and labelled it urgent. When they got back to Grimmauld Place, he'd practically tapped his foot for the two minutes it took Harry to firecall Kingsley and procure authorisation over Barclay's medical care, only getting off when Malfoy snarled under his breath.

“Why couldn't we have stayed until he'd finished eating?” Harry asked. “Until he was more himself? We need the fairy’s name.”

Malfoy curled his lip. “I cast another spell on him to ensure he doesn't sleep. We’ll talk to him tomorrow,” he said, “if he's still there.”

Harry's mouth dropped open. “That’s barbaric. He's a sick man, Malfoy, you can't not let him—”

“Don’t _you_ try to tell me that you don't do what needs to be done, barbaric or not,” Malfoy said coolly. “You've simply become used to receiving accolades over your choices.”

Shaken, Harry stared at him. He couldn’t figure out where this was coming from, and didn't even want to ask what Malfoy was referring to. The fact that there were more than a few examples to pick from stung more than he wanted to admit, but Malfoy’s reaction to visiting Barclay was so disturbed, so wildly out of proportion to what had occured, Harry had no ready reply for the accusation — whatever it was about.

Malfoy nodded grimly at his silence. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, steadying himself, then walked back to the far edge of Harry's room to start the spell again. Harry recovered and followed him.

Carefully, he said, “You have to explain. You were so… Everything seemed fine until it was clear he'd been jumping, looking for his wife. Why can’t he sleep?”

“I’m not evil, despite what you think,” Malfoy said over his shoulder. He waved the twigs of incense at the crown mouldings in the corner. “Once he eats, he'll settle into a quiet, meditative state for twenty-four hours or until I release him from it. Probably. I can't be sure, not knowing what the fairy did to him. It certainly wasn’t the potion.”

“He hadn’t drunk his potion at all,” Harry realised aloud.

“Catching on, are you? It's a curse. I have very little way of combating a curse without knowing which kind.”

“We brought you in for your potions expertise,” Harry said.

“Is that so?” Malfoy's mouth twisted into a waspish smile and Harry flushed.

“Fine. Because you work in Brain, and were there, too, in my jumps,” Harry conceded tightly. “But if it's a curse, you don't— I'm capable of—”

Malfoy barked a sharp, ugly laugh. The bright orange glow from the tips of his incense winked out. He looked down at the bundle and gritted his teeth. “You still think this is all about you, don't you?”

“It _is_ about me! But no, not all, give me a little credit.” Malfoy gazed at him flatly. Harry’s chest felt tight, turbulent anger and confusion warring for the small space carved inside where the flutter, the pull toward Malfoy, lived. “Why are you being like this all of the sudden? We’ve been— This morning—”

“That shouldn’t have happened,” Malfoy said in a snotty, final sort of tone, and Harry’d had enough.

“ _Fuck you,_ ” he growled, words bursting out of him as his anger flared into hot rage. Malfoy’s eyes widened; he took a step away, then another, and Harry realised he was stalking closer to him, closing the space between them. It felt good, Malfoy’s apprehension — he was so bloody smug, so _fucking_ infuriating — so he kept going until Malfoy was trapped in the corner, shoulders wedged tight against the walls.

“You need to move away from me,” Malfoy said faintly. Their faces were so near Harry could kiss him if he wanted to, with a small uptilt of his chin. He did want to; he did. He’d wanted to for _days_ , maybe weeks and months, maybe _years_ , and that Malfoy could so easily dismiss him was unbearable, like it was _okay_ that he drove Harry mad in every world they inhabited. His breath and skin smelled sweet, and any dizziness Harry felt at their close quarters was muted by the rush of being pressed against Malfoy, by hearing the rasp to his voice. “It’s too dangerous. Step back.”

“I don’t want to step back,” Harry muttered, shifting. He felt something hard against his hip and realised it was Malfoy’s cock. Realised he was hard too, as hard as he’d ever been in his life, and he couldn’t even remember it happening. “And you don’t want me to.”

He brought his hand up to touch Malfoy’s cheek, clenching it when Malfoy jerked his head to the side. “ _Don’t_ —” he said, and Harry almost growled again. He rolled his hips, stiff cock rubbing against Malfoy’s pelvic bone. Malfoy’s pupils expanded. He drew in a swift breath and continued, almost inaudibly, “Don’t touch my skin.”

Harry shuddered out a breath, watching Malfoy’s bright hair move with it. Malfoy’s eyes were bright too, the grey having softened into a sort of alarmed arousal that only served to turn Harry on even more.

“I want to kiss you,” Harry said, rocking once more against him. “I need to.” 

His cock throbbed in his trousers; he dropped his hand to Malfoy’s shoulder, sliding it in to clutch at his robes over his chest and then Malfoy’s hand was on him too, slipping tentatively under Harry’s jacket to curl into the fabric of his tee. His fingers were warm against Harry’s stomach through the cotton, knuckles skimming hard into the fluttering muscles. Harry groaned, lifting his chin, and Malfoy jerked his head back.

“ _No._ ” He said it hard, so commandingly it gave Harry pause through the wave of lust crashing over him. Malfoy opened his hand, palm flat on Harry’s stomach, fingers spread like a star. He gripped Harry’s waist and pushed, eyes intense on Harry’s as he propelled him backwards and followed step by step, their bodies never separating by more than a breath. “Goddamn you, Potter.”

Malfoy walked Harry back to the bed, pushing him down on it. Harry went, lightheaded now for a new reason, eyes burning because he couldn’t make himself close them. Malfoy climbed over him, drawing his wand from his sleeve and whispering a spell that made the row of buttons down the front of his robes come undone, the sides falling open to reveal his trousers and shirt. He dropped his wand and spread his thighs over Harry’s in a tight straddle, knees pressed into the mattress, one hand flat on the bed next to Harry’s head. He huffed a soft breath, then thrust with deliberate slowness, dragging his erection against Harry’s.

“You can’t kiss me,” he said, licking his lips, his colour high. Harry lifted his head and tried anyway, tried to reach Malfoy’s mouth with his own, panting under Malfoy's excruciating tease. Malfoy pulled his head away and lifted an eyebrow at him — higher when Harry’s cock jerked hard. “Do you _know_ what it could do to you?”

“I have an idea,” Harry said roughly, letting his head fall back to the bed again. He ran his hands down Malfoy’s sides, shivering when Malfoy did. He gripped his arse to keep them tight together and planted one boot against the mattress for better leverage then arched up, cock leaking hard with a light pulsing pressure. Malfoy wiggled on top of him, eyes fluttering shut, lip caught between his teeth. His prick was swollen and long, and almost where Harry wanted it. 

Harry held him tighter and rolled them so they were on their sides, one of Malfoy’s long legs slung over his hip. He curled it around the backs of Harry’s thighs, their cocks lining up perfectly, and began thrusting in earnest.

“Let me,” Harry said raggedly, fingers digging into the clenching muscles of Malfoy’s buttocks to yank him close with every rock of their hips. He didn’t know what he was asking for, but Malfoy’s jaw was set with anger or arousal or both, his hair fanned against the duvet and messy like Harry had never seen it, and he wanted… he needed to… “Let me.”

“Shut up and make me _come_ , already,” Malfoy said, eyes flaring. His hands fisted in the back of Harry’s shirt, under his jacket, fingers pressing too hard into the divot of his spine.

Harry groaned. He hiked up Malfoy’s thigh higher around his hip and fucked against him, Malfoy’s breath hot on his face, his slender chest heaving against Harry’s own. “We’re going to fuck, Malfoy.”

Malfoy shuddered, stomach muscles tightening. “Harry—”

“You want me to split you open with my cock,” Harry muttered, as certain of it as he’d rarely been of anything. He caught Malfoy’s eyes and moved faster, shocks of electric heat zipping down his spine like the tension building in his fingertips before casting a spell. “You want to bend me over so you can fuck me into the mattress.”

“Harry— Yeah,” Malfoy gasped. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth the way Harry wanted to, his irises thinning to nothing but a faint silver ring.

“Say it,” Harry told him, voice husky and cracking. “Tell me you want my mouth to suck you down. Tell me how you want me to _eat_ you, and _fuck_ you and _have_ you.” He ran his fingers down the crease of Malfoy’s buttocks, thumb brushing against Malfoy’s tightened sac through the material of his trousers. Malfoy jerked against him, body a mass of trembling limbs and straining muscles, cock rubbing filthy against Harry’s own with each stutter of his hips. “Don’t tell me we can’t.”

“I— _fuck_ ,” Malfoy said, eyes closing again. “ _Yes_ , you bastard, I want it.” He groaned. “I want all of it. _Harder_.”

Harry pushed off the mattress again, rolling them until Malfoy was beneath him. Malfoy pressed his feet down, arching up frantically as Harry drove against him in mindless pursuit of climax. Malfoy gripped Harry’s shirt, twisting it, and then Harry felt his body stiffen, felt the hot throb of Malfoy’s cock as his thighs clamped around Harry’s hips. Harry rode him through it, choking out a moan when Malfoy’s eyes opened to zero in on his, his body still thrumming with twitches. He wedged a hand between them and pressed it flat against Harry’s cock, the heel of his palm dragging hard over the shaft, and Harry came undone, cock spurting sticky and hot inside his pants. He groaned, forehead falling to Malfoy’s shoulder as he jerked helplessly into Malfoy’s grip, shuddering until he was finished.

Malfoy’s hoarse, panting words were a distant sound in his ear as Harry tried to recall that he actually had bones in his body. He lifted his head when Malfoy nudged him. “What?”

“Get off, I can’t breathe.”

Sighing, Harry forced himself to his forearms, allowing Malfoy to push him until he could wriggle out. He watched Malfoy stare up at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling too quick, then sit, fruitlessly attempting to unrumple his clothing before he giving up. He reached across Harry for his wand and cast a cleaning charm. The line of his back was tense.

“I didn’t mean that it wouldn’t happen again,” Malfoy finally muttered, sounding cross. But he seemed calmer now, too. Resigned. “Just that it—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop,” Harry said. He reached out and touched Malfoy’s side, stroking his fingers up to the ridges of his ribs. Malfoy looked over his shoulder, a small, perplexed frown creasing the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t.”

“It doesn’t bother me anymore,” Harry said, which was mostly true. He still felt an unsettling blur around the edges of his perception, but it was nowhere near as bad as it had been. He let his hand linger where it was and wondered if Malfoy was being too cautious in not allowing them to kiss. “Are you going to talk to me now instead of reverting to type?”

Malfoy’s shoulders curved inward; he exhaled hard. “I wasn’t—” He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry.”

Harry came up on his elbow, schooling his face to hide his surprise. “I just want to know what’s going on with me.” He hesitated. “With us. Why you were so upset.”

“I don’t know anything yet, not for sure. But it wasn’t what I thought,” Malfoy admitted. He stood and pulled off his robes, summoning a hanger from Harry’s wardrobe to set it on before sending it back. He rubbed his cheek thoughtfully.

“Me neither,” Harry said, confused. “That doesn’t mean I’m not capable of following your train of thought.”

“I’d rather not say them before I confirm it,” Malfoy said, voice low. There was the barest hint of question to his voice, and Harry shoved away his automatic irritation. He studied Malfoy, who cast him a glance before picking up his incense and relighting it with his wand, turning to face Harry warily. He was asking for trust again, and Harry could see from his from his expression that he still didn’t expect it.

“What’s going on with us?” Harry asked, pushing himself up. He got his wand from the inside pocket of his jacket and cleaned himself perfunctorily, then took his glasses off to rub at his eyes; they were starting to hurt.

“With us?” Malfoy smirked, but he wouldn’t meet Harry’s eye. “We’re shagging. Isn’t that what we said?”

“That’s your official position?”

“Our positions have to be official now?” Malfoy said lightly. Harry’s jaw tightened and he stood, approaching Malfoy, who rolled his eyes, his smirk catching the air of amusement; he shook his head to himself and said, “Can you wait til the morning to goad me into another round of ill-advised sex?”

“No promises,” Harry said with a snort. He chewed his lip, thinking, and took a breath. “I don’t know why this is happening, but I’m,” he fumbled out, flushing, “attracted to you. Stop being so defensive.”

Malfoy watched him patiently, and Harry thought how odd it was to be talking to him like this — calmly, when it _mattered_ — after having been tangled around each other so feverishly only minutes ago. He didn't have much experience, granted, but had previously used this time for lazing in bed and falling asleep. He set his hand on Malfoy’s hip, hooking one finger into his waistband to pull him closer.

“Did you have a point?” Malfoy asked. Harry jerked his gaze up from where it rested on Malfoy’s mouth. “Or do you really just love listening to yourself talk, like I’ve always thought?”

“Keep me in the loop,” he said. “We’re… Trying something new. Stop treating me as if I’m still your enemy, or a complete fool.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched. “You’re not my enemy, Harry.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly. Encouraged, he guided him even closer. Malfoy glanced down with interest when their hips brushed.

“But we can’t try…‘something new,’ yet,” Malfoy continued. “And you don’t even know that you’ll want to when this is over.”

Harry blinked. “You think I’m attracted to you because of the jumps?”

“No. I look in the mirror every day.” Malfoy smiled that unreasonably tempting smile again. Harry’s stomach flipped. “But don’t make any grand promises before we know what’s what.”

“I didn’t think I had,” Harry said, though he knew his behaviour indicated otherwise. It was habit at this point, to discover something he needed or wanted and dive in; he’d been honing the skill for a dozen bloody years. Malfoy seemed to know what he was thinking, because he gave a low, frustrated chuckle and frowned.

“I don’t think you know how not to,” he said.

Harry’s chest clenched; he brought a hand up to touch Malfoy’s bandage. 

“This hasn’t healed yet?” he asked softly. 

Malfoy flinched but allowed Harry to investigate the edges of the meditape, his breath coming slow and shallow, gaze wary. Harry felt settled this close, calm, the dizzy euphoria he’d been feeling for days changing shape into something softer, something he didn’t want to fight against. He cupped Malfoy’s jaw, running his thumb over his lower lip and Malfoy froze, eyes going wide. 

Harry did too, the realisation of what’d he’d done crashing sickeningly through him when his stomach plummeted, vision turning as grey around the edges as Malfoy’s shocked gaze. He yanked his hand away from Malfoy’s face even as he felt Malfoy’s arms wind around his waist, Malfoy’s palms pressing flat against the small of his back.

“Fuck,” he said, and was rewarded with Malfoy’s hard sigh warming the side of his cheek.

“I told you so,” Harry heard him mutter, and everything blinked out.

***

[_The steady rhythm of Harry’s fingers on the strings faltered;_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13723425) Draco looked around, lifting one pierced eyebrow, lips pursed into a questioning smirk. Harry took a breath and let the spotlights burn into his retinas, blanking out his initial sense of panic, so his fingers could resume the fast-beat notes he knew by heart. Draco turned back to the microphone, tossing his hair as his husky voice picked up the song without pause.

_“All alone in space and time / There's nothing here but what here's mine. Something borrowed, something blue / every me and every you—”_

Harry swallowed as the lyrics teased his psyche, but the sweep of the music was too tempting, like the hot grind of Draco’s mouth on his before the show. His heart thudded, fingers hitting the strings with force when, as if he could hear Harry’s sudden sense of longing, Draco turned again and looked at him, makeup smeared dark around his heavy-lidded gaze. He licked his lips, almost licked the _microphone_ , and Harry gripped the neck of his bass to keep from dropping it, jeans going impossibly tight in the crotch as his prick plumped.

 _Every me and every you… Every me and every you…”_ Draco winked, hips swaying to the beat, voice rising and lowering. He looked back to the audience — it was crowded tonight — and Harry caught the flash of his grin in profile as he flipped two fingers at someone in a friendly fashion. Harry laughed, that spark that he only ever felt onstage with Draco blooming hot inside him. His eyes landed on Draco’s arse; the underside of one cheek was tight, flexed, visible through his threadbare black jeans and torn fishnets and Harry was suddenly concerned he might shoot in his pants.

 _Excuse me, what am I wearing?_ Malfoy’s voice rang out in his head, but Harry managed to keep going as Draco sang the refrain on repeat, lower and more lingering.

 _You can see for yourself when I get back_ , Harry told him.

_About that._

_You can lecture me for touching you when I get back too._

Malfoy sighed, put out. _Fine._

 _”Every me….”_ Draco’s voice trailed off and Harry let the final note hold hard, vibrating through the air for several seconds. When it faded, he set down the instrument and seized Draco’s arm.

“Harry?”

Harry yanked him close, rough and almost unintended. He was almost certain the urge came from the Harry who played bass and fucked Draco twice a day and was head over tit mad about him, but when Draco curled his arms around Harry’s neck, throwing himself in to suck over an tender spot on Harry’s neck, he couldn’t be sure. Harry nipped at Draco’s jaw, panting, hands slipping over the damp skin at the small of his back under his sweaty band shirt and Draco wrenched his mouth away.

“You _do_ remember my mother was supposed to show up tonight, don’t you?”

“No,” Harry said, though now that he thought on it, Draco might have made a passing mention before sucking his cock that morning. Draco laughed and bit him pointedly on the neck again, and the approval of the crowd turned from cheers into a roar for more. Harry was actually tempted, Draco’s mouth hot and greedy against his skin, his dick thickening fast against Harry’s hip.

 _We_ just _had sex!_

_Sorry. Other me’s decision._

“Are we to put on another show?” Draco murmured against his mouth. “You know I’m up for anything.”

Harry snorted. “They’ll be pissed,” he said, tilting his head. Padma and Millie already looked exasperated, in fact, and Cho downright bored. Offstage, Harry caught a hint of Gin’s smile, quickly covered with her hand lest she seem too approving — his and Draco’s public displays after a set were appealing to the audience, and had garnered them some added interest. “Let’s go see your mum.”

_Thank fuck._

Amused affection bubbled up at Malfoy’s fervent relief. _Not interested in public sex?_

 _Have you gone insane?_ Malfoy huffed. Then, cautiously, _Why do you want to know?_

Harry laughed out loud, shrugging when Draco looked at him curiously, tugging him offstage. “What’s so funny?”

“Just...this,” Harry said, a helpless smile on his face as he followed. This Harry, he thought, was so besotted he was screwed. “You and me. Music. Love.”

Draco stopped so abruptly Harry slammed into his back. “What?” he croaked.

“What?” Harry thought. “Oh. We’ve not said that yet, have we?”

 _You complete tosser,_ Malfoy snorted.

 _It wasn’t me,_ Harry insisted, though his face heated.

Draco turned around very slowly, throat working. Harry thought how he could get used to that look, that glow in Draco’s eyes, the stunned, trembling slack of his lips. Draco made him… happy. “Harry—”

**Blink.**

_”But what do I get out of it?”_ Harry gripped the edges of the table to steady himself. The jump was disconcerting, but moreso the shift from Draco’s elated gaze and body heat so close to the blasé countenance he projected here. Which was… Harry looked around, mind scrambling to catch up. They were in a Muggle bistro, picked so they wouldn’t be spotted talking before Malfoy finished his proposal. He exhaled; waited.

Malfoy considered, studying Harry with a measure of calm that set him on edge. He took a sip of his tea and set down his cup in its delicate saucer, elegantly bored with… drinking tea, Harry supposed. Or maybe just everything. “I don’t suppose you’re interested in favours of the sexual sort?” he asked, one corner of his mouth curling up when Harry choked on his own tea.

“Are you offering?” He wiped at his watering eyes with a napkin as Malfoy paused for too long.

“I didn’t realise you could be funny, Potter,” he said finally, chuckling a bit. He drummed his fingers against the tablecloth. “I do happen to know that you’ve been accosted for yet another one of those charity auctions. And… Did I hear rumour of a [nude Auror calendar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10311317)?"

“That one I can’t get out of,” Harry said, grimacing. “Even Ron’s going to be in it. But yeah. There are actually two more bachelor auctions lined up. This year.”

“If you had a boyfriend, you’d of course be ineligible to participate,” Malfoy said smoothly.

“I guess,” Harry conceded. He remembered the days where he’d assumed his charitable efforts would actually involve more than showing up at events to shake hands with wealthy donors and selling dates to wild crowds to raise money four times a year. _It’s what would bring in the most gold for the foundation, Mr Potter,_ had become a painful refrain in his ear.

 _Are you the rentboy now?_ Malfoy asked.

 _No! Jesus! I just…_ Harry drummed up what he could access of his memories and eyed the Malfoy across from him, who picked disinterestedly at a piece of invisible lint from his tie. _I’m an Auror, but… I volunteer for charities a lot. Or am volunteered, I guess._

“Well?” Malfoy picked up his spoon and stirred his tea; the silver rattled gently against the china and Harry frowned thoughtfully. “Is that a no, then?”

“All this because you want to be able to date without the stain of having been a Death Eater for five minutes?” Harry asked bluntly. Malfoy’s cheeks darkened; he glared at Harry from under his lashes, and Harry raised his hands. “Not to make it less than it was. But— it was years ago. By all accounts, you’re doing well.”

“In certain respects,” Malfoy allowed. He took another sip and sighed. “Frankly, there’s someone specific I’m interested in, who might never consider me if he’s not able to see me in another light.”

Harry sat back; the way he phrased that rankled. “Then why would you want him?”

Malfoy blinked rapidly. “Why do you want the things you want?”

“All right, that’s… fair,” Harry said slowly. He still didn’t like it; something possessive in him felt rubbed raw at the idea of helping Malfoy find someone else, his world or no.

 _Don't start,_ Harry thought, hoping to cut off Malfoy's tease before it started.

_It’s you._

_What?_

_You, you arsehole,_ Malfoy said, sounding oddly unamused. _He wants to date **you.** Or him. Whatever._

“Fine,” Harry said. “But it lasts until the next two auctions are over. That’s four months. That'd buy me enough time I could pretend to be too upset to participate for a few more.”

“That’s fair,” Malfoy rushed out, sitting forward a little. He looked startled but inordinately pleased, eyes wide. “My… He won’t be back until August, anyway, so six months if you need. I’m counting on him reading it in the papers.”

 _Fuck, it’s me,_ Harry thought, stunned. He never would have seen it for himself, had such circumstances arisen without Malfoy in his head.

 _See?_ Malfoy sighed.

 _Why wouldn’t you just—_ Harry broke off at Malfoy’s irritated silence, then jumped at the feel of a hand over his own.

“What are you doing?”

“Practising.” Malfoy flashed a charming smile at a server as she brought over a fresh pot of tea to the table next to them. He squeezed Harry’s hand, pinky stroking over the outside of it in such a way that Harry felt the tingle of interest shiver from the back of his neck down to his groin. He pulled his hand out from under Malfoy’s. 

“We’ll need to,” Malfoy said through his teeth, smile going strained.

Harry put his hand back, instinctively stiff, and worked to relax himself. It wasn’t that he still hated Malfoy — Luna considered him a friend at this point, and it was hard to argue about anyone she liked — but they’d never really… touched in a way that hadn’t ended in bloodshed. “Right, I know.”

 _I don't, though,_ Harry said, annoyed with himself. _I'm an idiot._

 _Harry,_ Malfoy said, sounding remarkably like the Malfoy in front of him, _if you gave me a knut for every world in which you were the most romantically clueless sod to attempt dating, I’d be a very wealthy man._

 _You_ are _a very wealthy man,_ Harry pointed out; it was better than agreeing. Malfoy snickered.

“So then we should work out logistics,” Malfoy said. He hummed. “Being photographed publicly. Dates, kissing, whatnot. ”

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” Harry grumbled.

“And _discretion_ ,” Malfoy continued, ignoring him. “And who sleeps where.”

Harry coughed. “Um.”

“Oh, please, Potter — you can’t expect the world to think you’re celibate if you’re dating me, can you? My flat is rather small, but we can transfigure a cot or something—”

“My flat has spares,” Harry said.

“Aren’t you sharing with Weasley?”

Malfoy’s laughter in his mind was jarring; Harry twitched his head in confusion. _What?_

_Wait for it._

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, if Granger thinks we’re not really an item,” Malfoy pointed out mildly, “then she’ll continue to feel free in volunteering you for every event that comes up. And if Weasley knows, she will.” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Nevermind. It won’t be much of a hardship to share your room on occasion.”

“What!”

“We can transfigure something in your room too,” Malfoy said hastily. “If your bed isn’t decently large enough for both of us.”

“Oh.” Harry shifted again. He wanted to bury his face in his hands and howl in frustration. _Jesus, Malfoy!_ “No, it’s… pretty big. I guess we can share. Whatever.”

Malfoy nodded, straightening. He glanced over at the other patrons, lowering his voice as he spoke. “We should start soon. I thought— what if we made it look like a drunken one-off that turned into something more? That would make it plausible.”

 _Oh my god,_ Malfoy muttered. _Please get us out of here soon._

“That makes sense,” Harry said, voice coming out so uncertain he wanted to knock his head into a wall. _You're practically propositioning me!_

 _It's working, too,_ Malfoy muttered, sounding oddly resentful.

“So we should… What? Meet at the Leaky tonight?”

“Mmhmm.” Malfoy nodded. “Be seen drinking and kissing before we Floo to your place.”

Harry swallowed. He couldn’t stop the nervous fidget of his body, his exasperated thoughts conflicting with the way his other self understood the situation: a bargain, with a man he suddenly realised was attractive after years of distance, part of him jumping forward with the thought, _What if we_ did _get drunk and shag?_ and feeling mortified over it.

_Fucking hell._

_You’re the one who told me not to intervene,_ Harry thought sullenly. He was jerked out of his mental conversation by Malfoy rifling through his waistcoat to pull out a slender wallet. He removed a few pounds and casually set them down on the table, perfectly at ease with the handling of Muggle money.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” Malfoy said. He tucked a loose strand of his hair behind his ear, taking a slightly unsteady breath as he stood. He paused and, when Harry looked up at him, folded his long body at the waist to press a kiss just to the right of Harry’s mouth, lips slightly parted.

“So it’s not so weird when there are people around,” Malfoy explained, swallowing. His cheeks were pink. “I’ll see you tonight at eight.” He hesitated, then ordered, “Act surprised to see me.”

Harry watched him go, jaw hanging open, heart throbbing too fast in his throat. Malfoy pushed the door open and Harry stood, almost knocking his chair over in his haste to follow. “ _Malfoy_ —”

***

There was a hand stroking over his cock.

Harry opened his eyes to the pale morning shadows crowding the room, Malfoy’s face half-hidden by them. His eyes were dark and anticipatory, his hair dishevelled from sleep. And... they were in bed together, again. Malfoy squeezed his cock to get his attention. Harry let out a low, plaintive sound and squirmed to get closer, but that damned pillow was still wedged between them, and Malfoy’s free hand was flat on his chest.

“You’re wearing gloves,” Harry said breathlessly.

“So are you.”

Harry looked down at his clenched fists to find it true. Sometime while he’d slept, Malfoy had spelled gloves over his hands, brown leather and soft as velvet. He reached out, more off-kilter than he’d felt in the last several jumps, his hand running slow and dreamlike down Malfoy’s t-shirt.

“God,” he groaned. He bit his lip and Malfoy smiled at him, sleep-loose but wicked. There was a pillow crease on his cheek. “What—?”

“I thought you’d talk me into it anyway,” Malfoy murmured. He’d pulled Harry’s cock out the fly of his boxers and pumped it with unhurried efficiency, his covered fingers exploring the shape of it. He smelled good, Harry thought distantly, like sweat and fresh laundry and soap.

“Is this real?” Harry’s hands paused at the waistband of Malfoy’s pants, slipping his fingers into the elastic to stroke them side to side over Malfoy’s belly. It jumped against his knuckles. 

Malfoy’s lashes lowered; instead of answering, he gave a long pull to Harry’s cock, from base to tip, pinky finger lingering on the slit when Harry gasped.

Harry dipped his hand inside Malfoy’s underwear; his prick was already hard, straining against the material, and Harry gripped the heft of it with another little groan, this time of mingled frustration and satisfaction. He wanted to feel the gleam of moisture at the tip with his fingers, wanted to lick it off. He said so, whispering it over the short, broken sounds of their combined panting punctuating the air.

Malfoy sucked in a breath, moving his hand faster. His other left Harry’s chest to burrow into the leg hole of Harry's pants and cup his balls, the leather against them a smooth, flexing cradle. 

“I'll taste so good for you,” Malfoy said, tugging with both hands.

Harry bit his lip, breathing faster. He concentrated on the fast glide of Malfoy's tight foreskin over his shaft as Malfoy traced the round, fattened head of his prick with two fingers, pinching it to coax more fluid out.

“That feels… I'm going to come.”

“Come for me then,” Malfoy murmured, smoky gaze stilling on Harry's mouth.

 _He wants to kiss me, too,_ Harry thought.

 _Yes._ Malfoy responded in his mind, shockingly intimate. 

Harry shuddered with something that _ached_ inside, a particularly skillful twist of Malfoy's wrist pulling his orgasm from him, desperate and somehow shocking though Harry had felt it rising in his balls, in his thighs and cock and spine. He spilled over Malfoy's hand with a quiet cry, his own grip going loose.

Malfoy pumped him tighter, dirty, heated compliments falling into Harry's head like gifts, until he’d wrenched every drop from Harry's overstimulated prick. Then he placed his hand over Harry’s on his own cock and guided it in a swift jerk, closing Harry's fist hard over the glans on every sweep down. Harry got the idea and redoubled his efforts, finally able to pay enough attention. He snuck a hand under Malfoy's t-shirt to investigate his nipples, gone hard and tight with arousal. He tweaked them, experimenting with different degrees of roughness as he pulled Malfoy off. His eyes fell between them to the soft, narrow fan of pale hair leading down from Malfoy’s belly button to his exposed groin. Harry stared at it, at the way his stomach flexed with every rock of Malfoy's body into his fist, muscles quivering.

 _“Harry,”_ Malfoy said aloud, sticky hand falling to Harry's thigh. He dug his fingers in and came with a violent groan, head tossing back on his pillow to expose the creamy column of his throat, cock spurting long stripes against Harry's forearm and shirt. His breath was fast and warm against Harry’s sweat-damp skin, and Harry shivered, closing his eyes. He felt as he had as a kid, knocked to the ground from a great height, but with the Snitch held fast in his hand.

“Our minds are still linked?” he got out after a few minutes.

Malfoy rolled to his back. “It was incidental,” he said, a touch defensively. But there was a smile in his voice.

“Sex legilimens?” Harry asked, grinning. Malfoy shook his head, a lock of tousled hair catching in his mouth. He grimaced and pulled it out.

“Don’t ask me. I’ve never done before.”

Harry blinked. “Really?”

“Harry,” Malfoy sighed. “You can’t tell me you don’t know you’re the exception to every rule you come across.”

“I’d never say that,” Harry said wryly. But his stomach puddled with warmth because— he’d never once realised he could be Malfoy’s exception, too.

Malfoy went silent and Harry glanced at him; he was studying Harry, a bewildered frown pulling his mouth down. “I didn’t think to call Kreacher.”

Harry sputtered a laugh. “I have enough trouble keeping him out of the bedroom, thanks. Merlin knows what’d he’d do if you’d invited him to watch.”

“For _food_ ,” Malfoy said, snorting. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Oh.” Startled, Harry considered it. “I could eat,” he said slowly, “but it feels… like it does most mornings.”

Malfoy twisted, rolling to grab his wand from the night table. He cast a series of charms over Harry as he lay there, still sticky but unmoving. “Your metabolism has levelled out,” Malfoy said frowning deeper. “Even though you jumped at least twice last night.”

“Why are you making that sound like it’s a bad thing?”

“Because I don’t know what kind of thing it is,” Malfoy said. He zipped a quick cleaning charm over Harry, who squawked with indignation, then one over himself. “Go take a shower. We’ll eat — in case your levels crash again — and then we need to go. I can’t give you any answers until I have them first.”

Harry huffed and followed Malfoy out of bed. Malfoy grabbed a fresh set of robes and clothing and headed for the hall, presumably on his way to a different shower. He stopped abruptly at the door. 

“Life debts,” he said.

“What?” Harry swallowed at the shift; Malfoy’s face had gone somber; his mouth was pinched. “This has something to do with life debts? Between us?” He shook his head.

“That’s what I _thought_ it might be,” Malfoy said, squaring his shoulders like admitting to something horrible. He hesitated. “I’d appreciate it if you kept that in mind,” he said.

Swallowing, Malfoy reached up and peeled off the bandage on his forehead. Beneath it, there was a jagged scar.

It looked just like Harry's. 

“I don't think that's what it is anymore,” Malfoy said.

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Even his body seemed confused as to how to behave; he took one step toward Malfoy but halted, both of his hands fisting the towel he’d grabbed hanging from the wardrobe. He didn’t know what question to ask, and couldn’t be sure he wanted answers to any of them that were crowding his mind.

Malfoy nodded at his silence, as if something had been confirmed. He turned and walked out.

***

Harry watched disbelievingly as Malfoy stripped the potion stations in his lab one by one, disappearing simmering ingredients with a negligent flick of his wand and sending a dozen cauldrons over to cleaning stations, where a rigorous charm started washing them. He headed to his desk and tapped a flat disc with his wand. Harry startled when Hermione’s disembodied voice rang out.

“Malfoy? Is everything okay with Harry?”

“Could you come in here for a minute, please?” He tapped the button again, cutting off Hermione’s next question. He gestured in Harry’s direction, then to his sofa, and sat down in his own chair, rocking back as he pulled the remaining potion from a box in his desk.

“Why would any of this have to do with life debts?” Harry sat. “Why the secrecy?” The back of his soft palate tasted sour. “Why is your scar just like…”

“You really haven’t put it together yet?”

“Don’t be dick,” Harry said, on edge. “Just explain it.” 

“She mentioned accepting repayment for your deeds in her spell,” Malfoy said. “It occured to me that, among the many who owe you, my debt is still more immediate. Larger. That’s all.”

“I don’t want you because of a bloody debt,” Harry said.

“No.” Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t think you do. But you did think about saving me,” he said. “When I was a renter. And in some of the other… places, there seemed to be an indication of a running theme. The battle world. The potions spill. Even in the one where we were forced to fuck, it was about you saving everyone.”

“Were...” Harry’s voice cracked. “Were you repaying me, then?”

Malfoy looked up from the potion quizzically, twirling the vial between his finger and thumb. “What?”

“For the life debt,” Harry said. “Was that what this,” he waved a hand between them, “was about?”

“I thought about it,” Malfoy said, as if Harry’s question was of no import. He pulled his glasses from the pocket of his robes and slipped them on, holding the vial close to his face. “Of course I did. If my involvement with you in the other universes was a direct result of you having saved my life, then it would stand to reason that paying you back in the way your mind seemed to gravitate towards, elsewhere, could end it. I didn’t know how the potion played into it, though. And it was a problem we couldn’t touch.”

“Solved that well enough, didn’t you?” Harry asked, shaking his head. “I’m not sick, not hungry, not jumping when we get too close.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m just...” 

“What?” Malfoy looked up.

Harry wanted to say _angry._ It was such an easy fallback, he almost did. But the knot of pain behind his breastbone was something altogether different. “You thought we'd— you'd— cure me with, with—”

“Sex,” Malfoy supplied helpfully. One languid eyebrow drew up. “Yeah. Harry, it was one of a lot of things I considered. Remember, you and Granger came to _me._ Really, I should be offended,” he said in a deceptively light tone, “that you'd first assumed I used nefarious sex spells to get hired and are now accusing me of— what, exactly? Did you like the world where you were paying me for it that much?”

Hermione came in, cutting off Harry's answer — and good thing, too, because he hadn't one. Malfoy's objection made sense, but that he'd _thought about it_ — tricking Harry in such a way — also threw everything else that had happened between them into a different perspective, and frankly he was sick of new ones. Or old ones.

“This isn't over,” he said as Hermione approached them, eyes wide.

“What's going on?” She looked from Harry to Malfoy and back, relaxing somewhat after roving a sharp eye over Harry to ensure he was okay. A little gasp escaped. “Malfoy, your forehead! What—”

“Nevermind that now,” Malfoy said.

“Yeah, _nevermind_ it,” Harry said sarcastically. Hermione shot him an uncertain glance, and Harry shook his head.

Malfoy pursed his lips at Harry and handed over the vial. “What do you see?”

Hermione took it from him, confused. “What's left of the potion?”

Malfoy _tsk_ ed impatiently. “What do you _see_ , Granger? Describe it.”

Hermione shot him a warning glance but held the vial up to the light obediently. She squinted. “A thick substance, loose enough to swallow….” She looked at Malfoy again; he nodded encouragingly. “Deep lavender, or… I'm not sure of the exact colour. Purple, and glowing, with a moving streak of red through the centre.”

“Two streaks,” Harry corrected automatically.

Hermione shook her head. “No, one.” She lowered it slowly, frowning the way she did when she was thinking quite hard. 

“Is it simply a streak?” Malfoy prodded. He leaned forward, eyes keen, and held his breath. Harry’s knee juddered; he darted another look to Hermione's face.

“Well, yes, what's it supposed to— no.” She held it up again. “It's… Thicker in the middle. Um, twined, perhaps?” She lowered her arm, that same rare, annoyed look flickering over her face as whenever Ron figured out something before her. “We already knew there were discrepancies in its appearance.”

“I don't think there are, actually,” Malfoy muttered inscrutably. “Harry, what do you see?”

“Same as Hermione, only with two streaks of red.” He held out his hand and Hermione passed the vial over.

Malfoy nodded. “Curling around one another?”

“Moving,” Harry said, voice going low as trepidation crested inside him. “Yeah.”

“The other potioneers describe it a variety of ways,” Malfoy said, expression so clinically detached, Harry wouldn’t have believed his voice could tremble in such a way if he hadn’t heard it. He opened the potion case file. “Some see a stagnant line, others two or three or four shots of red, floating singly or entwined, one sees a knotted streak of grey. A few see what Granger does. There was only one other who recorded seeing two streaks close enough to connect the way you and I see it.” He cleared his throat. 

“Right, so?”

“So that's why I haven't been able to crack its recreation,” Malfoy said. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The red has nothing to do with a potion. It’s magic of a different sort.”

“A spell, then, like you thought,” Harry ventured slowly.

Malfoy hesitated, but before he could respond, Hermione broke out into a shocked, delighted giggle. “Oh! Oh my goodness, _no!_ It's not possible, is it?” Her cheeks were pink, her brown eyes round and bright as she looked to Malfoy for an answer. “You don't suppose I won't be Silenced about this when I get home?”

To Harry's astonishment, Malfoy's lips twitched at her giddiness, though his eyes remained shadowed. He shrugged. “I personally wouldn't risk it. It'd be faster to get clearance for him to come onto Level Nine; at least that way you wouldn't face censure.”

“For _what!_ ” Harry demanded, interrupting Hermione's little hop in place. “What is it?”

Hermione’s face fell. Her mouth dropped open and she stared at the two of them, eyes twitching back and forth in mute disbelief. 

“Oh, Malfoy,” she said softly at length. He looked down at his hands and she bit her lip, an entire world Harry couldn’t understand in that brief exchange. Haltingly, to Malfoy, she said, “Should I—?”

“No,” Malfoy said heavily, looking down at his hands, “I will.”

“ _Someone’d_ better,” Harry said, fed up.

“Relax, Harry,” Hermione told him. He glowered at her, and she flinched, lip disappearing between her teeth again. “Sorry. I just mean… it’s not _bad_ , really,” she said, looking unsure about whether that was true. Malfoy bristled but nodded in Harry’s periphery. She cleared her throat. “Is there no other news? No idea how to… stop Harry’s jumps and metabolic deterioration?”

“He’s steadied,” Malfoy said. Hermione shot a swift, appraising look at Harry, and Malfoy continued, “Which I have, ah, suspicions about. He’s still travelling, but…”

“Yeah, Malfoy _cured_ me. Partly, at least,” Harry muttered, not caring if he sounded childish. Neither of them looked at him.

“You should speak to Jones,” Hermione said, head cocked. “RS Theory has been a pet project of his for years. Most everyone else in the Chamber thinks it’s a myth. Maybe he can tell you something.”

Harry sat back with a loud grunt. It was no wonder Malfoy and Hermione never socialised in public. He’d got it wrong, Harry thought, feeling overlooked and betrayed; their lack of friendship wasn’t because Hermione didn’t like Malfoy, it was because neither of them could concentrate on anything but theory when they were around each other.

“Could he change it?” Malfoy said. One corner of his mouth drew up sardonically. Hermione frowned and shook her head. “Then what’s the point?”

Hermione stepped forward and squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “I’ll see if I can find anything else, as well,” she said. Harry didn’t respond and her hand fell away. “I’ll just… leave you two alone, then.”

Malfoy waited for her to depart, then sighed and gestured for the potion sample. Harry put it on his desk and rolled it to him, dropping back in his seat in determined silence. Malfoy opened his mouth several times. Closed it. Picked up the sample and closed it in his fist with a low, patient breath, like he was waiting Harry out. Finally, “Have you ever heard of red string theory?”

“No.”

“It’s…” Malfoy coughed, avoiding his eyes, and Harry tried not to look too interested; apparently that was a sure-fire way distract someone from the actual topic. Malfoy rubbed his chin contemplatively. He put down the sample and toyed with it, sliding it with the soft scrape of glass over his desk. “It’s an ancient myth said to permanently link people in certain ways, so they'll meet and, I suppose, interact. A string of fate.”

Harry looked down at his hand. Through the glove, he could almost feel split after split of each crack in his palm lines burn in reminder. “Fate.”

“Yeah.” Malfoy swallowed.

“She said she was giving me choices; destiny is a bit contradictory, don’t you think?” Harry narrowed his eyes. Malfoy remained silent. “So, you’re saying we were destined to meet.”

“It seems so,” Malfoy said. “When I said, before, that there were likely worlds in which one of us hadn’t been born, or had never met, well, that’s probably not accurate, at least not for…”

“Us.” Harry nodded, unwilling to say the word floating around in his mind. “Then the spell… linked us in that way. Right?”

Malfoy drew back. “I don’t think any magical spell or being has that kind of power,” he finally settled on saying, low. Harry swallowed.

“And the sex?”

“Would, um.” Malfoy’s voice shook. He raked a hand through his hair; it swept down to frame his face again, looking wonderfully soft. Harry gripped his knee to restrain from the sudden urge to touch it. “Would likely be in most of the worlds inhabited by different versions of us. Yes.”

“So it _was_ the sex,” Harry said quietly. “That helped stop my… Uh.”

“I don’t _know_.” For the first time since last night, Malfoy’s composure cracked; his voice rose. “Okay? I don’t know. It wasn’t intentional, alright? I didn’t _actively_ plan to fuck you to keep you here. It was something that occurred to me because I consider things from every angle. At least, now I do,” he added in a mumble, flushing. “You can see me in a hundred different ways, can’t you, and never really believe…” His throat worked; his jaw went rigid. “Well, fuck you too, Potter. It’s good to know that—”

Harry blinked, clutching the arm of the sofa. The lance of burning disappointment behind his breastbone grew and, with it, the nausea he hadn’t felt around Malfoy in days. “Malfoy—”

Before he could finish, Malfoy was kneeling before him, between Harry’s knees, gloved hands smoothing over the tops of Harry’s thighs. His face had softened, but his words were incredibly measured, a foundation Harry could cling to while the rest of the world rocked around him.

“Harry. It’s alright. Look at me. What happened. Can you tell me?” He kept his eyes on Harry’s, unblinking and wide and fringed in pale lashes. Everything about Malfoy was pale, Harry thought shakily, which was why it didn’t make any sense that he’d always seemed so vibrant. “Breathe. You were fine. What happened?” he asked again. “Were you going to jump?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry managed; his lungs seemed to want to expand wider than his ribs had room for. Malfoy slid his hands up over Harry’s, cupping his fists. That helped, so Harry opened his hands with some effort and linked their fingers together. Malfoy finally broke his gaze, glancing down, clearly perturbed. Harry started to draw away, but Malfoy quickly tightened his fingers around Harry’s hand. He levered himself up and sat beside Harry on the sofa.

“That’s… It’s fine,” Malfoy murmured, almost to himself. “I think you just need to stay calm.”

“I think,” Harry disagreed hoarsely, “we need to talk to Barclay again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magpie's AU tumblr prompts series can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/936696)! :D
> 
> Her works referenced in this chapter: [_my heart's a tart, your body's rent_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13723425)
> 
> [The Full Monty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10311317)


	6. Chapter 6

The Splinch Damage ward felt eerily quiet as Harry walked with Malfoy down the halls to Mr Barclay’s room. Perhaps it was simply that, upon stepping out of the public Floo, Malfoy had taken Harry’s gloved hand in his, and neither of them knew quite what to say.

Still, Harry wanted to try. “I didn’t mean to imply that you… That you’re the sort who would have…”

Malfoy scoffed. “Of course you did.”

“Okay,” Harry conceded. “Maybe. But I know it’s not true.”

Running a swift eye over Harry from head to toe, Malfoy said, “It could have been, though. I might have. If I’d thought it was the only way to— help.”

“Selfless of you,” Harry said with a grimace.

“People call me a lot of things, but selfless isn’t usually among them,” Malfoy said wryly. He pushed the door open. Mr Barclay rested against the semi-propped mattress, breathing through parted lips, a small, dreamy smile upon his face. His blinks came at slow, regular intervals, and his eyes rested on the tent his feet made under the covers.

“That’s… creepy,” Harry mumbled. Malfoy snorted. He released Harry’s hand and moved to the other side of the bed, pulling up a chair. Harry tried not to feel the loss of the comforting press of Malfoy’s palm against his as he copied him, quietly situating himself close enough to hear.

Malfoy drew his wand. He touched his forefinger to his lips to indicate Harry should be quiet. “Mr Barclay, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice a low, peaceful rumble.

“I’m going to release you from your meditative state now,” Malfoy said. “You’ll feel much calmer than you did last night, won’t you?”

“I’ll feel much calmer,” Barclay agreed. He blinked again.

Malfoy nodded, brow creasing. Under his breath, he incanted a reversal of the spell, sweeping his wand gently in front of Barclay’s face, slowly returning him to full consciousness. Layer upon layer, Barclay became more alert, from the loss of his vague smile to the subtle tension in his body, and then he sat up abruptly, a soft gasp wrenching from his throat.

“That fucking _bitch_ ,” he hissed.

Harry sat up, remembering his dislike of the man so suddenly, his wand found its way into his hand before he realised it. Malfoy’s mouth popped open but he quickly sat back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee in an indolent pose.

“Who?” he asked with a mild smile, twirling his wand between his fingers.

“ _Filthy_ halfblood,” Barclay continued hatefully.

“I was rather under the impression that we’d got past name calling these days,” Malfoy said, sounding mildly interested even as his face flickered and his smile dropped away. Harry admired his control; for a moment, he’d been sure Malfoy was going to explode. “And who do you mean?”

“She’s a _creature,_ ” Barclay said, sneering.

“Who?” Malfoy asked a third time.

“Merlin, she— she took my Cora,” Barclay said. He faltered, eyes clouding. “Alina.”

“Perhaps we can take care of that for you,” Malfoy said. “If you’re sure that’s her name.”

“Alina.” Barclay stuffed his fists against his eyes as they filled. “I found Cora and she— she— They all lie,” he said, dissolving into a frantic babble. He finally seemed to notice Malfoy sitting there, then swung wild eyes to Harry. “They _lie_ so they can— so they can take, she’ll cheat you, too, she’ll _take_ from you, it’s what they _do_...”

“Didn’t you lose Cora before this?” Malfoy asked softly.

It came with no warning, Barclay’s maddened snarl and lunge over the railing of his bed. Malfoy reacted too slowly to skid his chair out of reach, but Harry had already gotten a shield charm around him, and Barclay howled as his fingers grazed it, scrabbling desperately.

“I’ll _kill_ you,” he roared. “She took everything I had _left_ , and she still wanted more, she wanted everything—”

“Can I stun him?” Harry asked over the sound of Barclay’s yells. Malfoy hesitated, his flinch barely perceptible when Barclay tried again to hammer through the invisible barrier with his fists, his wand coming up defensively.

“Yeah,” Malfoy said hoarsely. “Low-force.”

Harry cast, pulling back on the force of magic welling up inside him. He didn’t know whether to feel pity or anger over Barclay’s outburst; it was a lot easier to pity the shell of him after he crumpled bonelessly against the mattress, but the hot sense of distaste remained this time. When he was sure Barclay was out, he lowered the shield around Malfoy, who stood with a shaky breath.

“That was calmer than last night?” Harry asked.

Malfoy cracked a nervous laugh. “I suppose it depends on how much anger and grief he was actually feeling.” He sighed. “I’d hoped that he might retain some real sense of self, but I think it’s time to alert the Janus Thickey Ward.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said dubiously. “He sounded quite a bit like when I first met him.”

“Deranged?”

“Well, no,” Harry admitted. “But… Ugly. Do you think the rest has to do with him… You know, travelling like—”

“Yes, I do.” Malfoy’s voice was short. He rubbed his eyes. “We have her name, at least.”

“I can call her now.” The words felt misshapen, leaving Harry’s mouth, this thing they had both been working towards. It was, he realised, because they weren’t what he really wanted to say. “You said she wasn’t responsible for… us,” he said, frustrated at his inability to just spit it out. “That she wouldn’t fix it. What we are.”

Their eyes met for too long, but Malfoy wouldn't look away and, because of that, Harry found himself riveted.

“Soulmates,” Malfoy said.

“Yeah,” Harry said when he could speak. Potent relief swept through half of him at having it voiced; the other half didn’t know what to do with it. He looked at his own famous scar, echoed on Malfoy's forehead.

“Is it the idea you feel needs to be fixed, or the person?” Malfoy asked with a hard swallow. 

There was no artifice in him, for once, nothing sly or haughty; there wasn’t even that disconnect that Harry had learned to expect from him on certain subjects. Instead, he asked with simple, genuine curiosity, and Harry didn’t know which answer Malfoy would prefer. Didn't know which one he wanted to give. He could hear nothing beyond the sound of his heart in his ears, his own thoughts muted by Malfoy’s plain speak and open gaze, so he shook his head.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said.

***

The light was dwindling by the time they finished setting up, purples and blues visible through Harry’s open curtains to elongate the shadows on the floor.

Malfoy claimed having an audience of people Harry felt linked to would help, and Ron and Hermione joined them so quickly, Harry wondered if they had been waiting for Malfoy’s firecall. Harry thought it pointless, but no one would listen to his protests that, if it was anything like last time, no one would notice he was gone. Malfoy also demanded it take place in Harry’s bedroom, arguing that Kreacher would be able to signify if his absence went on too long. He didn't seem bothered by the fact that, even if that were true, there would likely be nothing they could do about it.

“I'll figure out something,” Malfoy had said.

So Harry sat with Ron helplessly as Malfoy and Hermione prepared the room with ruthless efficiency. Candles were lit and crystals charmed to hover; every corner was anointed with sweet smelling smoke. Hermione followed Malfoy, setting up ward after ward with the determined belief they might keep Harry where he belonged.

“This is a lot of work for an easy summons,” Harry said, feeling useless. Ron nudged him. He lounged back on his hands, legs dangling off the bed, relaxed in every way but his hovering, protective gaze over Hermione.

“Let them,” he said. “You’re only taking the word of a madman who’s been in a coma for three weeks. Where’s the harm?”

Harry cast him an appreciative smile, but he could feel the nervous shift in the room as Hermione set the final ward over the gold shimmer of the door, the tension gathering in all of them as busy-work ended and the time for the summons came closer.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Harry said. “She did say it was a gift, after all.”

Tartly, Hermione said, “One that’s left you sick, and unable to sleep, and put you into frequent physical stress, and—”

“I don’t know what fairies consider to be favours,” Harry said wryly. “Maybe they like that sort of thing. And I’m a lot better now.”

“Are you?” Malfoy barely turned in his direction, but the brief look he got was arch and knowing. A reminder of what had happened in Malfoy’s office.

“Fine.” At her indication, Harry stepped forward to the area of floor Hermione had Scourgified. She hunted through her bag and pulled out a large, clear jar, filled to the brim with— “Is that salt?”

“Yes.” She unscrewed the lid and started pouring it around him.

Malfoy folded his arms and leaned against the door frame to Harry’s bathroom, watching with a sharp eye. His lips were parted as though ready to make an objection, but he couldn’t seem to find anything to complain about when she was done closing Harry into a wide circle. Harry clutched his wand and pulled the ribbon out of his pocket. Malfoy pushed off the wall and approached.

“Wait.”

Malfoy stopped outside the circle with a lift of one hand, but dropped it to his side. His breath hitched, just once, before he said, “It was you.”

“It was me, what?”

Malfoy gave a little half-smirk. He glanced at Hermione, who seemed to realise she was still just standing there, watching them. She blushed and hurried over to Ron’s side. It wasn’t far enough that they couldn’t hear, but Harry was grateful for the illusion they they weren’t listening.

“When I was...” Malfoy twirled his fingers self-consciously. “Fifteen.” He cleared his throat, delicately choosing his words. “The person I imagined.”

Harry fought the heat rising in his cheeks. “I wondered.”

The admission didn’t seem to surprise Malfoy, who only nodded. He stepped back. “Anyway. I just wanted to say so.”

He was saying a lot more than that, Harry knew, but again couldn’t figure out what the right way was to respond. “I’m, uh, glad to know it. Glad you told me.”

Malfoy inclined his head. His hands looked restless, as if he didn’t know were to put them; his smile was wry, self-deprecating, perfectly asymmetric. His face changed with it, in that way Harry couldn’t quite get used to, like he was seeing a side of Malfoy that even Malfoy was unaware of.

Moving away, Malfoy muttered, “Don’t fuck this up, all right?”

Harry stifled a snort. He closed his eyes. He’d thought to say her name aloud the way Hermione had explained, but it didn’t feel right, so he thought it three times, in close succession. _Alina._ His wand felt warm in his hand, but the air didn’t move to denote any sort of alteration in his environment. He exhaled, frowning, and opened his eyes.

Alina stood before him, wrapped up in her flowy grey cloak. She tilted her head, inspecting him, her bottomless eyes twinkling as she turned to examine the room. It flickered, softening and blurring into the field she’d first taken him — he even, for a second, felt the sunlight warm on his exposed wrists — but refused to transition into another location, the meadow fading back into his room.

“At least something works,” she said lightly, nodding to Malfoy, Hermione and Ron, motionless in the poses they’d been in when Harry had summoned her — Ron and Hermione clasping hands and sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed, and Malfoy standing casually beside it, propping himself with one hand on the bedpost. For all his lazy countenance, Malfoy’s hand gripped the post so hard, his knuckles were white. But their faces didn’t change — they looked to be waiting, still, for something to happen. 

Harry sighed. “Hi.”

“Hello, Mr Potter. This is…” Alina wrinkled her nose politely, looking around again. “Interesting. So!” She clapped her hands together. “What can I do for you?”

Harry stared at her. An urge to step out of the circle and raise his wand — no, that wouldn’t be satisfying enough; he wanted to _throttle_ her — rose in his chest. Tightly, he said, “You can _undo_ what you did to me.”

She pushed back her hood, freeing a tumble of dark hair. Her brows were raised. “You say it as though I’ve harmed you in some way.”

“You—” Just barely, Harry refrained from taking a step forward. He’d forgotten what nearness to her felt like, unspooling that surge of emotion. He looked at Malfoy, at his friends, and kept his voice level. “I can lose my mind.”

“Or die,” she said, nodding. “But of course that wasn’t my intention.”

“What was, then?”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have this conversation elsewhere?” she asked. She waved her wand and the walls blurred again to reveal the field, bright with a riot of blooming flowers. She did it again and he heard the sound of the river. Harry let out a breath and raised his own wand, flicking it. The walls, mostly, solidified.

“I’m comfortable here.” Whatever else, Malfoy and Hermione seemed to have good instincts. Harry didn’t know if it was the salt, the candles and crystals, or his friends, but he was comforted by the irritation on Alina’s face.

“So suspicious.”

“You’ve been feeding off me,” Harry said flatly.

“Just a little,” she admitted lightly, with a barely-perceptible falter to her voice. She summoned the chair in the corner and sat down, fastidiously spreading her robes about her before looking up again. She sat back, a touch impatiently. “But I happen to know you’ve crossed into less fraught territory, so I fail to see why I’m here.”

“I want out of this! I want to stop— to stop— I want to be in my own life!”

“You didn’t seem very happy with your own life,” she remarked. “In fact, I remember you saying you’d never had a choice in it.”

“So you decide to give me _fewer?_ ” The irony threatened to choke him, and the flood of words he hadn’t known how to express came pouring out. “Now I have someone who I’m _destined_ to be with — what kind of a choice is that?”

“You’re unhappy with your options,” she said, a measure of real surprise in her voice as she raised her wand. Harry tensed. “I am no real substitute for your own curiosity, of course, but I can perhaps find… Hm…”

 _“Alina,”_ he said warningly, but his protest was no use. This time, when the room faded, it took him somewhere new.

***

In the chaos of transition, world after world flashing before his eyes, Harry barely registered that the actual slide into a new one was smooth; it had none of the clash of his previous jumps. His memory was clear as well, an easy conversion from _there_ to _here_ , and he knew immediately where he was as Draco’s hands frantically travelled up over the protruding rungs of his ribcage.

“You fucking _fool_ , wake up!”

Harry opened his eyes to the dungeon they’d been in for the last six years. Draco’s face was anxious and dirty, filth cut through only by the tracks of old tears and looking worse for how hollow his cheeks were, his eyes. But those, at least, were clear. 

Harry coughed. His lungs were on fire. “What happened?”

“What do you think? You complained that they hadn’t fed us and got another _Crucio_ ,” Draco said grimly. “You know they barely need an excuse, even with a Horcrux inside you.”

“I’ll never be able to throw them off without practice,” Harry said, attempting a smile. It hurt, like the rest of him did. But he did notice that there was a tin plate filled with slightly spoiled offerings — stale bread and bruised fruit, and cheese that only had mold on one edge — resting near the bars of their cell now. “If his last Horcrux dies, they’ll get in even bigger trouble.”

Draco shifted to sit next to him, their backs against cold stone. He threaded their fingers together. “It’s a stupid idea.”

“I’m getting closer.”

“My aunt—”

“Won’t ever find out,” Harry promised. “I can block her mind now.” He squeezed Draco’s hand in thanks, in regret. It was his fault, he knew, that Draco was in here with him. If he’d never spoken to him, that first year after his capture, never looked at him, never accepted the extra blanket or portion of food, or noticed the beautiful brightness of his hair—

“Perhaps not; too dark.” Alina said in his head, startling him. “Maybe something more adventurous?”

Harry’s breath left him with a _whoosh_ as the dungeon transformed into… another dungeon, this one carved into the natural alcove of a cave. The light seeping in from the mouth of the cave was still bright, but the rocks above and below him shook, and the amount of dust drifting down signified they didn’t have much time.

[“This is all your fault,” Draco snarked from behind him.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13992318) Harry heaved an exasperated sigh because for _once_ , it would be nice if Draco took a _little_ responsibility.

“I made the reservations for a nice hotel,” Harry ground out, digging into his boot. “I’m the one still _limping_ from last night and yet, somehow, I still managed to be quiet. This was an explorative dig, one you _followed_ me on, and _you_ were the one who stepped on that goddamned trap.”

Harry left off the part about how the whirring blades that had swung from the rock had nearly stopped is heart, directed at Draco’s head as they were. But Draco’s physical reflexes were still as good as they had been when they’d played lacrosse and rugby at Cambridge, and his duck and roll of evasion had cost him nothing more than Harry’s (stolen) fedora — except that it had also alerted the guardians of the cave to their presence.

“An explorative dig,” Draco said flatly. He lounged against the bars with his arms folded, eyes lighting with unspoken satisfaction as Harry pulled the knife he kept tucked against his ankle. “Then I’ll guess that you’re just happy to see me, and that’s _not_ a giant ruby in your pocket?”

Shit. 

“That’s why you followed me, isn’t it?” Harry snapped.

“It’s why I _came_ here,” Draco said. He licked his lips; smirked. “Well, part of the reason.”

Harry’s face heated, but he tuned Draco out as he crouched and began working on the ancient lock. The problem with the two of them was that he knew Draco loved him, but he would never change. Part of Harry liked that, liked all of the parts of Draco that drove him toward making bad choices. Sometimes he wondered if he was one of those, but Draco drew him like a lodestone; cocky and vulnerable, sexy as all hell, but—

“Got it,” Harry muttered as the lock snicked open. Draco squeezed the back of his neck with a damp palm and Harry’s heart shot into his throat. The cave shook harder.

“That one’s certainly interesting,” Alina said thoughtfully. “But I have a feeling you’d not like to _live_ there? Is it that you’d like to be with someone else? You think people always end up with who the Fates choose for them?”

“Alina—”

The scene blurred and renewed, and this time Blaise tightened his hand over Harry’s, face overly-patient as, across the table from them, Malfoy gulped his wine and continued his strop.

“ _Me,_ Astoria said.” He looked outraged and perplexed, and when Harry had started dating Blaise three months back, he might have reconsidered it if he’d known it came with a side of drunken Draco Malfoy complaining about his relationship issues. “Who is she calling homosexual? She’s leaving me for _your_ ex girlfriend!” he said, eyes glittering with triumph and loads of alcohol.

Harry looked at Blaise — he hadn’t been aware he’d dated a woman since Hogwarts. “Parkinson?”

Blaise snorted. “No, Merlin, can you imagine?” He paused, following Malfoy’’s gaze and his brows went up. “I think he meant you.”

“But I’ve only ever really dated G—” Malfoy’s cackle interrupted Harry just as revelation hit. Unwillingly, he considered how… rather nice he looked, smiling like that. Wine stains on his rumpled shirt notwithstanding. “Astoria and Ginny?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Says they met a few weeks ago at a match.”

“Oh.” A smile tugged at Harry’s mouth and he wondered how Molly would take the news. She still had hopes he and Ginny would get back together. “Good for them.”

“ _You’re missing the point!_ ” Malfoy shouted, flinging his arm so wide that wine sloshed out of his glass onto the floor. Blaise winced and cast the server an apologetic look. “She said I’m _gay!_ ”

“You _are_ gay,” Blaise said blandly.

“But no one is supposed to _know_ ,” Malfoy said. He looked at Harry and lowered his voice to a conversational tone, apparently unaware that he’d been yelling and that half the restaurant was listening. “Don’t tell anyone, Potter. I need an heir.”

Harry bit his lips against a reply. Blaise said, too seriously, “Draco, everyone knows. And there are other ways to get an heir—”

“That’s right,” Harry said so he didn’t blurt out that he _hadn’t_ known until tonight, really. “Muggle techniques.”

“Sorry to inform you, Potter, but Muggle and magical sex is — mostly — the same; my cock has to go in…Well.” He grimaced. “Either way. I’ll take potions,” he said with a heavy sigh, eyes glassy.

“No,” Harry said, leaning forward. He made a mental note to ask Blaise about the ‘mostly’ and tried not to grin; this version of Malfoy was oddly charming. “There are medical things you can do; you wouldn’t even have to touch a women. I mean, they’d probably have to donate, er, the egg, and agree to be pregnant, but… Yeah. It’s possible.”

“See?” Blaise asked, leaning over to brush a kiss against Harry’s jaw. He somehow managed to beam and leer at the same time but, well, that was what Harry liked about him. “And you said I’d be wasting my time with this one,” he said to Malfoy. “‘Wouldn’t be worth it even if he liked men,’ you said.”

Malfoy flushed, and Harry tried not to scowl.

“Maybe not,” Alina said. She hummed. “Something to satisfy a deeper craving?”

There was another blur of movement around Harry, and then he was in a dark room, a basement. The flood of scents threatened to fell him: The minerals twinkling deep in the stones that built his surroundings, the hard-packed dirt, earthy and damp under his feet, the salty, masculine musk of Draco’s throat as he nosed along his carotid artery, which pulsed with arousal and the faintest _delectable_ odour of trepidation. 

“You don't have to,” Harry whispered, grazing one fang along his skin. He could make out every single throb of Draco's heart, the skips and catches of it. Every twitch and shudder of his body felt like ringing bells. The thread of blood that rose along the path of Harry's fang was thin but rich. Harry lapped over it with a hum, sealing Draco's skin tight. 

“I- I want to,” Draco said. The tremble of hesitation in his voice remained, but Harry had already given him a chance to say _no, stop, Potter; I don't want this._ He'd given him the chance, and now Harry's fangs lengthened in a crude, beautiful mimicry of his cock as he sank them deep into Draco’s neck.

“Ohhh, that one's good,” Alina murmured mockingly. “But you don’t like those who feed on others, right?” 

Harry paid no attention, wasn't _able_ to, Draco’s blood spurting over his tongue in bright, hot gushes of flavour. 

Alina chuckled. Then, brightly, “What if he’s not even there?”

The addictive rush of Draco's blood, of his pliant body in Harry's arms, disappeared. It was replaced by the sting of wind and the rustling of leaves overhead, underfoot. Harry stood, staring down at one gravestone among many.

“ _No_ ,” he said, lungs tight. His hands shook.

“You’re hard to satisfy,” Alina said, winking into his field of vision as the cemetery flickered.

“I want _my life_ ,” Harry said.

“Something like your life… You’d probably have a lot better luck letting the spell run through them, but let me see if I can find one similar—”

“Goddamnit,” Harry roared, complaint transitioning perfectly into the new Harry’s voice. Draco popped his head into the kitchen.

“What is it?”

[Harry stared down helplessly at the groceries.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582527) He Disillusioned them so Draco couldn’t see. Pointless, really; Draco’s work in Brain made it nearly impossible to keep a secret if he wanted to know something. “I— I forgot something, but I won’t have time to pick it up after work.” He sighed. “Nevermind. I’ll just… be late.”

“You will _not_ be late,” Draco said, coming in. “I don’t care if there’s a dragon eating babies and you’re the only one with a working wand. It’s our anniversary.” Harry looked at him. Draco’s mouth twitched. “Alright, I would care if there was a dragon eating babies. Tell me what you forgot and I’ll get it.”

“Uh.” Harry glanced at the counter, wavering. He really did want to make what he’d had in mind, but he wouldn’t have a lot of time after work, and Kreacher had agreed to watch the souffle rise while they went out for a quick after-dinner drink with everyone. He debated using magic, but there was something sort of… special about preparing it from scratch. With a sigh, he gave in. “Bittersweet chocolate?”

Draco’s nostrils flaring were the only indication he understood. “I see,” he said evenly. “Well, since Madam Puddifoot’s is closed for renovations, and I won’t need to make a reservation tonight, I suppose I can stop on the way home.” He cupped Harry’s jaw and ran his thumb over Harry’s lips, smirking. Harry could practically taste the chocolate on Draco’s tongue already.

“We could always skip drinks with everyone,” Draco murmured when Harry, though he knew they didn’t have time, slipped his hands into Draco’s unbuttoned robes and drew him closer, palms pressed to the slim muscles at the small of his back.

“Picking up their drink tab once a year as thanks is worth it,” Harry said. He flicked his tongue against the shell of Draco’s ear and Draco tilted his head to allow Harry’s mouth to travel down the side of his throat. “The arsholes.”

Draco rumbled a laugh and pulled away. Harry missed his heat.

“You like this one a lot,” Alina said.

“I want mine,” Harry said, though she wasn’t wrong.

“See? Choices everywhere,” she said, with a flick of her wand. They were caught again, somewhere between the meadow and Harry’s bedroom. He scowled and she responded with a complacent smile. “If you have a problem knowing that fate exists, it should at least please you to know there are ways to fight it. Or to find a fate more suitable to your tastes.”

“I’ve had to cope with fate since I was a year old,” Harry said. “I know all about it.”

“Then why the fuss?”

“Who _are_ you?” Harry asked. “How can you— Even Dumbledore couldn’t—”

“Albus Dumbledore,” she said succinctly, “was a _wizard_. I am more.”

“A fairy.”

“A descendant of Mopsus,” she said, trailing idle fingernails over the arm of the chair. “A Seer. A witch. A succubi. A great many things. But yes, my fairy parentage plays a part. I don’t know if there has ever been anyone like me.”

“Join the club,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. She laughed once more, a soft, sweet sound.

“Yes, I do like you,” she said in an approving way, eyeing him again the way she had when they first met. She looked… renewed, somehow, a telltale sheen to her hair and brightness to her gaze. A faint dewy tinge to her cheeks. Harry narrowed his eyes.

“We’ll have to get together for coffee sometime,” he said. “What about Barclay?”

Alina’s smile widened, this time with a dark edge to it. “I don’t like him nearly as much,” she said simply.

“So you’ll just let him go mad? He’s— awful,” Harry admitted, “but he loved his wife, and surely doesn’t deserve to—”

She straightened, steel replacing the melodic quality of her tone. “We’ll disagree on that, but it’s not my choice any longer. He put himself in this position,” she said, “when he refused to pay me what I was due.”

“Which was?”

“It’s inconsequential.” She fanned a lazy hand and looked away.

“Not to him.” The corners of her mouth came up, but she kept her eyes contemplatively on the far wall and, watching her, Harry felt a stab of intuition. “And not to me, I’m guessing. What am _I_ paying you?”

Alina scoffed. “I already told you that this was a gift. I do not go back on my word.”

“And yet your word didn’t include taking anything from me,” Harry said quietly. “That’s frowned upon, isn’t it?”

“A mistake,” she said, some of her poise slipping. “One that you shouldn’t have noticed at all.”

“Then how did you know I was in fraught territory?” Harry asked. Her lips pressed together and a light flush warmed her pale cheeks. “What are you taking from me, Alina? My magic? I don’t care what Barclay agreed to — you and I both know I didn’t.”

Her eyes flashed, the glow at the tip of her wand growing blindingly bright as she flinched. “Nothing I thought you would feel,” she said. He saw her swallow. “Nothing I thought you would miss. And ‘take’ is inaccurate. You have magical energy to spare; it regenerates immediately for a wizard like you. I merely… tasted the excess when you travelled.”

“A wizard like— No.” Harry stared at her. “No, you didn’t. Earlier, I felt it out of nowhere. That dizziness.”

“I was simply checking on you,” she said, too quickly. “I would not have—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Harry took in the shininess of her avid gaze, the way it searched around the room for something other than him to land on. “I will Apparate out of here to Ireland so fast it’ll leave you reeling.”

“A mistake,” she said again, but she sounded more subdued. “It was… a temptation with which I dealt wrongly.”

“And Malfoy? Have you been taking from him, as well? He— he got hurt for me. His scar—”

“Your scar,” she corrected, back on even footing at Harry’s confusion. “It mimics yours while he waits, because of the link between you. That one,” she said with a jerk of her head in Malfoy’s direction, “made his decisions about you… long ago. I’m not even sure if he was aware of them.” Her smirk was self-deprecating as she swished her wand. “It’s my only gift, you see. To see the links between people. To allow them to be explored.”

Harry looked down at the sudden pressure on his left hand. Tied around his ring finger, visible through his glove, was a thick string. The lead fell slack just above his knuckle where it split into numerous threads in various shades of red — some the lightest blush of pink, some nearly as dark as Goblin wine. All of them trailed off in different directions before disappearing. 

All but one.

The one leading to Malfoy’s ring finger _glowed_ , a living, pulsing scarlet. It bloomed brighter as Harry stared at Malfoy, jaw dangling.

“Wh—?” He cleared his throat and shook his head. It took great effort to tear his eyes away, but when he did, he saw Alina’s mouth turning up smugly at the corners.

“What did you take from Barclay?” he asked.

She startled. “It’s none of your business.”

“Alina, the next time you tell me that…” Harry trailed off, satisfied with the mutinous glint to her eye, with the way he could hear the subtle grind of her teeth.

“I took _nothing_ from him. I couldn’t. We _agreed_ , then he refused to pay me.”

“You’ve been feeding off his magic, I’ll bet.”

She sneered at him. Her face flickered, like a mask being removed and replaced too fast for his eyes to process. Her beauty flickered with it, her hard eyes revealing something ugly and bitter in the aged folds of her skin, her ravaged crow’s feet. Her hair turned tangled and matted, and her teeth peeked sharply out from under her curled lip. For just a second, he could smell something rotten emanating from her. “His magic is _nothing_. He’s just this side of squib, really. Why do you think he works in _finance_?”

“Then what?” Harry exhaled slowly, trying to regain his balance as Alina’s face reverted back to normal.

“His love for her in this life,” she hissed, jaw tight. “He wouldn’t need it; wouldn’t even feel its absence once he’d rejoined her in a new life. It was what was strongest about him, and if he had simply paid me what I was due—”

A ripple of disgust worked through him. “What if he didn’t want to leave, when he no longer loved her?”

“That’s why I cast before we struck wands. Much about my magic is delayed — as you have seen. I do not do things without reason.” She waved her wand at Harry’s hand again and he looked down to see the burst of red around his finger lighting up. “That would have ensured he went in the right direction. As so few of us can see them, I was _definitely_ due a little recompense for the energy I expended on his behalf. And yours.”

Harry thumbed the string; it fit like a ring and was thicker than it looked, but was also astoundingly soft. He glanced to Malfoy again.

“And you still call it a gift? When you took something from me?”

“Likely, you’ll put your esteemed Albus Dumbledore to shame one day Mr Potter,” she said measuredly. “As I said, you’ve plenty of magic to spare. It simply... spikes when you travel. When you feel new things for each soulmate you encounter.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees in a deceptively childlike pose. “It’s _delicious_ , and if you hadn’t had a linked mate so close...” She sighed, frowning.

“It stops now.” Harry kept his voice firm, resisting the impulse to look away from the light in her eyes. “We never bargained. I helped you.”

“That you still imagine I needed your help is charming,” she said, amused. A small, regretful sigh escaped. “But I did appreciate the effort. Very well, then. Go ahead and make your choice and I’ll leave, shall I?”

Confused, Harry considered her. “A choice.”

“You said you wanted them. You said you’re choosing here, if not him, though the bold colour of your string suggests otherwise,” she said with a trace of melancholy. She shook her head. “You can keep looking, of course. I’ll even… stay away,” she conceded. “You are right; I should not have indulged without your permission. But there are many, many worlds for you, Seeker. Many in which you’ll be happier than you are now, more excited, more in love.”

“I’m not in love,” Harry said automatically. It was the truth, so he said it again. “I’m not in love with Malfoy.”

Coming out of his mouth, it felt decidedly odd.

“You can be. Will be, if you let yourself.” Alina stood, smoothing her robes. Pragmatic. “You wanted to find that. I showed you that you already have, and could, and haven’t, and you’ve made your decision to the extent that you can share breathspace with your soulmate without being pushed into sampling another.” She frowned. “I rather thought that would have done it for you.”

“I didn’t make a—”

“Didn’t you? Was there no moment based on something more than curiosity or sexual interest when you thought you’d like to explore the link between you?” The question came out both pointed and bland.

Malfoy’s crooked smile; the first time he’d said Harry’s name. The need to kiss him, a weight heavy in Harry’s chest for days. Finding out about his fit of temper when he’d thought Harry injured. It all ran through Harry’s head in an instant, and he didn’t even blink. “Several.”

“Then make your pick. It’s simple, really; you already know that. Do you keep searching, or let go of the last of your doubt?”

Harry looked at Malfoy. The grimacing slant of his half smile, the lines of apprehension on his face. He wanted him, he knew that much. Knew Malfoy felt the same. He thought of the cold graveyard, and a lonely stone etched with a name he couldn’t bear to see. With difficulty, touching the thread wound around his finger, he said, “I don’t doubt him. Can’t we just—”

Alina seemed to understand; she took offence, chest swelling with a great inhale, mouth pursing. “No, you cannot sever it. You don’t understand yet, do you? The gift you’ve been given. Any choice you make will be _yours_ , Mr Potter. Does he have the ability to make you happy? Yes. He also has the ability to cause you pain like no other.” She exhaled. “It all depends on what you do with the knowledge I’ve gifted you.”

And it was a gift, in its own way. Knowing he had a soulmate gave Harry leave not to pursue their link, if he wanted. His eyes drifted from Malfoy to Ron and Hermione. The softness they shared was deeper than the friction people saw, and Harry knew it was rare. But he didn’t know if that was something he and Malfoy could ever have.

“So what if it isn’t?” Alina asked, and Harry realised he’d spoken aloud. Her frown had eased. “There are different kinds of tenderness. Different kinds of accord. I rather thought you would have learned that by now.” Gently, she asked, “Why are you holding yourself back, Harry Potter?”

Caught by her tone, Harry’s mind stuttered to a halt. “Why did you do this?”

Alina faltered, her blasé confidence fading. She drew a slow breath and, a little wistfully, said, “You have so many choices.”

As explanations went, it didn’t seem much of one, but she seemed disinclined to offer more.

“I want.” He looked at Malfoy again. _So what if it isn’t._ “I want to be here. I want you to break the spell.”

“Me break it?” she laughed, surprised. She spread her hands apologetically. “I can only cast. You’re the one who can cut ties with alternate worlds, once you’ve chosen where you’d like to be.”

“I—” Harry rounded on her, spluttering. “How on earth am I supposed to do that?”

“You would know better than I.” Alina gave him an unimpressed look and shrugged. “It changes, from person to person.”

“You can’t just assume I’ll know.”

“I _can_ ,” she said, rolling her eyes. She flicked her wand and the ribbon he was holding flew into her open palm. “I’m going to go now, then.”

“Wait,” Harry said. 

Alina sighed, impatient. “Yes?”

She was dangerous, cloaked with magical abilities he barely had a concept of; he didn’t know how he had overlooked the tremendous power at her fingertips, before. Harry wanted to ask about Barclay, wanted to assert that she wasn’t to feed off the misery or joy of others, wanted to take her in to the Ministry. But all that came out when she stopped to look at him was a cracked repeat of what he really wanted to know. “Why?”

“I already told you, Seeker.” She looked at him with a profound, genuine sense of gratitude. Her face flickered again, a mask of giddy beauty showing with it this time, like looking into a clear wellspring of joy. “I was indebted.” Something troubled flickered in her eyes. “I’m a half-blood, too, you know.”

And she was gone.

***

Harry gaped after her in the silence as the world took a minute to unlock, as though she wanted a head start in case he got any ideas. The walls looked solid, protective magic humming loud from the house, from the spells set in place. He couldn’t take his eyes off Malfoy, off the slowly fading thread binding their ring fingers together in a bond that he could pick up or set aside at will. He could choose, Alina had told him, and — for better or worse — Harry believed her.

He _believed_ her.

When everything resumed, it was all at once: Hermione and Ron sitting restlessly on the bed together; Malfoy, dropping his hand from the bedpost.

“Well?” he asked impatiently. “Aren’t you going to—”

Harry stepped out of the circle, ignoring Hermione’s gasp. He headed for Malfoy, whose brows snapped together in consternation as Harry displayed his own hands and deliberately removed the gloves from them. He drew them off, slow and steady, and dropped them to the floor. Then he lifted Malfoy’s hands.

“Fucking hell, Harry, what—” He tried, half-heartedly, to bat Harry’s hands away.

“Stop,” Harry said. Malfoy did, going uncommonly acquiescent as Harry touched his skin above his glove, the rabbit-fast flutter of his pulse, his own heart trying to break free from the cage of his chest with similar speed. He stroked the softness of the inside of Malfoy’s wrist with his forefinger. He thought, _It can’t be this easy._

“Harry?” Hermione prompted.

“I found her,” he said. “You two should leave now.” He didn’t look at them, gaze caught on wide grey eyes that telegraphed the same shock as Hermione’s voice. “Thanks for your help.”

“Uh, mate—”

Not breaking their eye contact, Harry lifted one leather-clad hand, then the other. He removed each of Malfoy’s gloves in turn with slow pulls from the fingertips. 

“You don’t want to be here for this,” he told Ron and Hermione, and was rewarded with a uncertain exhale, warm against his face.

Malfoy licked his lips. “Harry?”

“Draco,” Harry said, then cupped his jaw with bare palms and kissed him. 

Almost in protest, Draco’s hands came up to clutch his wrists — and that was new, too, his touch on Harry, fingers soft in some places and calloused in others. Harry pulled Draco closer, winding both arms around his neck, and Draco made a muffled sound against him. He parted his lips, and Harry pressed his tongue inside, shivering when Draco’s hands fell from his wrists to lock behind his waist. The world _clicked_ , and Harry shuddered out a breath into their kiss. 

“Draco,” he said again. “Draco.”

He didn’t want to _stop_ saying it; wouldn’t have, if not for the hungry press of Draco’s mouth again over his own, the way he yanked Harry closer. Each kiss, each time he said Draco’s name the way he’d thought about when Draco had started using his, felt like a choice he was making, securing him to his own world. He heard a vague, distant argument, followed by the sound of his door opening and closing, but none of it sank in, none of it _mattered_ , because Draco was kissing him with delirious intent and mumbling his name, and his skin felt like he was burning with fever, and Harry couldn’t get enough of it.

_So what if it isn’t._

Draco drew back with a low gasp; his eyes were glazed. “I’m not them,” he got out. The mimic of Harry’s scar on his forehead had disappeared. “You know I’m not.”

“I don’t want them,” Harry said, breathless with the truth of it. Draco blinked, and Harry slid a hand up to fist in his wintery hair. “I want you.”

Draco’s chest gave a tiny, choking heave against him. He leaned in and caught Harry’s mouth more once more and Harry opened his lips. He could taste him, could feel his tongue and teeth and grasping hands, and memories from other worlds flooded in — those hands on him before, clothing tugged away, kisses interrupted by gasps of air — but they were _nothing_ like this. _This_ Draco kissed with his whole body, sucking the air out of Harry’s lungs with a ferocious, inhaling groan, slender fingers digging into his buttocks, hiking Harry up an inch. His leg wound around the back of Harry’s calf; his cock ground against Harry’s hip.

“ _Touch me_ ,” Draco said. His hands pulled between them to work at the buttons of his shirt, fast and shaky, and Harry blew out a breath, tucking his face into the curve of Draco’s neck. He bit down, hands sliding as Draco wrenched his own shirt off, to smooth over sleek muscle and tight, ropy scar tissue. Harry knew immediately what they were, those scars, but kept going, wanting nothing more than to span as much of Draco’s skin as he could cover with his hands. Draco didn’t pause either, opening his belt with the soft _clink_ of metal on metal and the rasp of leather, his shoes coming off with a wobbly, shifting kick.

“Yeah.”

Harry found Draco’s nipples with his fingers, then hunched to take them in his mouth, lapping over the tight peaks of them, sucking with rough pulls of his lips. Draco’s breath turned choppy, and he paused unzipping his trousers to hold Harry’s face to his chest, so Harry took over for him, knuckles brushing the stiff length of Draco’s cock as he pulled the zipper down. He pressed his thumbs into Draco’s hips to steady their instinctive rocks, then hooked his fingers into Draco’s pants and dragged them down. Draco’s cock caught on the elastic and bobbed as it was freed, flushed dark and so stiff that Harry’s mouth watered. His trousers and pants pooled around his calves and Harry lowered to slip them the rest of the way off, mouth leaving wet trails and rapidly darkening lovebites down the flat, fluttering line of Draco’s stomach until he was on his knees.

Draco’s cock was long, a touch thicker than his own, and stood straight out at a ninety-degree angle from his groin. As Harry stared at him, Draco clawed a hand in the fabric of Harry’s t-shirt, pulling it up and away, and knocking Harry’s glasses off in the process. It was inelegant and clumsy and some part of him thrilled that Draco could be that way, that they could be that way together. Breathless, Harry glanced up again to see Draco’s lips were berry red, on the verge of chapping from Harry’s kisses, from the way Draco wouldn’t stop biting them. Harry leaned in and nipped the shadow under Draco’s left hipbone, hard enough to make him groan and shudder. He did it again, lower, over soft gold hair on the top of Draco’s thigh. Draco said, “Harry—” and Harry ran his tongue over the impression of his teeth.

“What?” Harry murmured, nosing the damp patch of his own saliva on Draco’s skin. He wanted to taste him _everywhere_. He threaded his fingers through the blond hair surrounding Draco’s prick and tugged. 

Draco caught his shoulder, fingers biting into the tendons there. “Tease me _later_ , you bast— _unnhh!_ ”

Harry licked him, a long stripe up the length with the flat of his tongue. Draco whined again — a low, rough sound, hips jerking — so Harry continued, tonguing his foreskin down to expose the glans, and god, _yes_ , it was so much better than he thought: the sharp, tantalising bitterness of Draco’s precome, the way all of his muscles tightened, the rich scent of arousal in the sweat starting to mist his skin. Harry followed Draco’s bunching foreskin with his lips, swishing his tongue along Draco’s shaft as he sucked, an appreciative moan tearing out of his throat. Draco echoed it and muttered, “Don’t _sound_ like that, dammit,” and Harry chuckled, giddy and astonished at them both. He moaned again. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Draco gritted out, and Harry opened his mouth and took him in with one long, wet slide down. The round head of his prick nudged the back of Harry’s throat, and he relaxed it, huffing out tiny breaths through his nose when Draco widened his stance and gripped Harry’s head in place to pump deeper. Harry allowed it, curling his tongue around the shaft and letting Draco fuck his throat with increasingly jarring thrusts, his prick rigid and weighty and _hot_ in Harry’s mouth. He cupped Draco’s balls with one hand and tore at his own flies with the other, grunting as he awkwardly pushed his jeans and pants down to release his cock. He palmed it, hollowing out his cheeks to draw off Draco’s prick with a final swirl of his tongue before looking up.

Draco stared down at him, pupils shot, a look of open disbelief on his face. Harry felt the grin break over his face; he couldn’t stop it. 

“If you’d let me kiss you days ago, we could have been doing since then,” he said, and Draco exhaled a sharp laugh. He tightened the hand on Harry’s hair, pulling him up and simultaneously folding at the waist to meet Harry’s mouth with his own, tongue pressing deep as Harry clambered up from his knees and pushed Draco into the sturdy oak of the bedpost. Draco sucked Harry’s tongue, shakily finding Harry’s cock with his hand. His fingers roamed over the length of it and Harry tried to make himself go still for Draco’s exploration but couldn’t help wedging his body tight against Draco’s, couldn’t stop the roll against his body, their cocks sliding against one another’s. Draco curled his hand around the base of it and pulled with a marvelling groan into Harry’s mouth. He dragged his hand up over Harry’s length to the tip, a tight squeeze of slow, tense friction. Harry bucked into his fist.

“ _Fuck,_ Draco—”

“I want this in me,” Draco mumbled hoarsely. He propped one foot on the edge of the mattress, muscles straining, and opened his thighs to let Harry fit between them. Harry cursed, kicking off his own shoes and wiggling out of his lowered trousers and pants, then wound his hand around the back of Draco’s other thigh, lifting him up. Splaying him out. Draco exhaled raggedly. “Where’s your wand?”

Harry blinked; he’d dropped it at some point during their kiss. He Summoned it from where it had fallen on the bed and wordlessly passed it over. Draco’s pink cheeks darkened further, his blush flowing down his throat, the same path Harry’s mouth had travelled, as he muttered a lubrication charm, slicking up the hand surrounding Harry. He fisted the oil over Harry’s aching prick — once, twice — then pressed a quick slide of fingers between his own thighs like an afterthought. 

“ _Now_ ,” Draco said on a snarl that made Harry’s brain boil, made his softening heart clench. Draco’s slippery hand found purchase around the back of Harry’s neck; he yanked him into another kiss. “Come _on._ ”

Harry didn’t question, couldn’t think of anything but the way his cock came into contact with the cleft of Draco’s arse. He stroked into the crease, resting his forehead on Draco’s collarbone to watch his cock work between Draco’s spread thighs, shivering at the flexing smoothness of Draco’s arse tightening around him, his biceps burning from holding Draco up at the right angle. He gripped his cock with his free hand and aimed, biting his lip when he felt the crinkled flesh of Draco’s furl over the head of his prick. He sucked in a hard breath and pushed, eyes riveted on the sight of his prick being enveloped, Draco’s hole widening around him. Draco’s thigh trembled in his hand and he forced his head up to meet Draco’s gaze as he kept going. The pressure around Harry’s cock was unrelenting — _unbelievable_ — as Draco took more and more of him in, eyes hot on Harry’s. It had to hurt, but the intensity of Draco’s stare didn’t falter until Harry was fully embedded, and then his lashes lowered; he let out a shuddering little breath, his erection leaking a generous spurt of precome over Harry’s belly. Harry stilled, taking in frantic pulls of air.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Draco muttered. He jostled his hips gently and tentatively squeezed his inner muscles. Harry groaned. “Fuck me now.”

Harry gusted out a breath and scooped his hand more firmly under Draco’s thigh for balance. He dragged his cock out and fucked in with a merciless drive of his hips, so hard Draco cried out and his body slid up against the bedpost. His head fell forward, hair tickling Harry's shoulder. 

_More,_ Harry heard in his mind as he fucked him, _Harder_. The intimacy of it was overwhelming, Draco’s coarse demands in his head a reminder of everything they’d shared before. Harry repeated the motion, his body coiling tight with suppressed pleasure already, each time he felt the grasp of Draco’s arse around his cock. He started a fast, snapping rhythm, plastering tight against Draco’s chest, Draco’s prick hard and wet between them. Draco lifted his head and pressed his face to Harry’s neck. He mouthed there, and said with undisguised jealousy, “Did they feel like this?”

“ _No_ ,” Harry muttered, distantly amused. He clenched his arse on each thrust, the slap of his balls against Draco’s backside quieting as they tightened. Draco was like an instrument when played right, he discovered, issuing high notes and low, vocal cords vibrating with the tension Harry poured into him. Harry slammed deeper, bracing himself on the bedpost above Draco’s head. Draco’s mouth opened, fingers twisting into the strands of Harry’s hair, and Harry groaned at the tight, hot slide of him around his prick. Draco folded his knee around Harry’s hip, clinging as Harry plunged into him, his whole body taut and shaking.

“Come in me. Give me all of it,” Draco breathed into his ear. He was gripping the base of his prick ruthlessly. “I want to fuck you with your come up my arse.”

“Oh— Oh, _fuck_ —”

Blindly, Harry kissed him, his balls drawing up all at once and his thrusts transforming into one unending shudder that ripped through him as he came. His cock pulsed, releasing hard throbs of spunk, and Draco made a needy noise, back arching away from the shaking bedpost as Harry juddered into him. Harry gasped, hips jerking helplessly with the last dregs of his orgasm, and Draco held him there long after it was over, arsehole milking Harry rhythmically as though he couldn’t stand the thought of losing a single drop. Finally, he unlocked his ankle from around Harry’s back and pushed at Harry’s hand on his thigh. Harry released him and Draco let his foot slide to the floor, Harry’s softening cock slipping out of him. They stood together for a few beats, arms around each other. Then, almost like a warning, Draco said, “Potter—”

“Fuck. _Yes_ , okay, yes,” Harry got out, lifting away from him. His body felt heavy, too boneless to participate, but his exhaustion was mitigated by his need for _more_. Harry let Draco arrange him as he wished, silently urging Harry onto his knees on the floor. He brought up Harry’s hands to flatten against the foot of his mattress.

He thought it would be like Draco had wanted from him — a slow, unprepared slide — as Draco fit his body against Harry’s back. Part of him wanted it, was inexplicably eager for the sting of the first push of Draco’s cock into his hole. But Draco’s hand was between them too, slick with more conjured oil. Draco thumbed his arse cheeks open and brushed two fingers up and down Harry’s crack before stopping at his rim. He massaged it, barely pressing the tips inside Harry for long, breathy minutes, murmuring heatedly against the shell of Harry’s ear. 

“Wanted to fuck this arse for years, Potter. I wish you could see how pretty you look with my fingers sliding into you. Can you feel how your arsehole is begging them to go deeper?”

Harry groaned, head lolling forward as Draco pressed wet kisses against the nape of his neck until Harry automatically began to move against his fingers with the expectation of pleasure. Harry’s hands tightened on the mattress; his toes curled, calves tensing. His cock, wet and spent, started to plump, and still Draco continued the exquisite tease of his fingertips until Harry lifted his head and gasped, “Goddamnit, Draco, _please_ , ah!”

Draco huffed an amused breath and he pushed his fingers in down to the knuckle. Harry jerked forward in surprise, then relaxed into it as Draco opened him up with brutal skill.

“I want,” Draco said, an uncharacteristic crack to his voice accompanying the long, twisting drag of his fingers, “to make you feel better than anyone you’ve ever been with.”

“That’s mostly you,” Harry wheezed, fucking backward when Draco added a third finger and pumped them all, crooking them down brush lightly against Harry’s prostate. “At least, percentage-wise.”

Draco laughed again, but it came out unsteady, strained. He grazed his teeth over the side of Harry’s neck and bit down, sucking. Harry could feel the tender bloom of the bruise under his skin just as Draco removed his fingers to guide his cock. He hummed lightly, moving his head lower to find an unmarked area of Harry’s neck to mark, and pushed, sliding his dick into Harry slow and relentless, until the bones of his hips rested against Harry’s arse. Draco pulled back a measure, rocked deeper. He stroked his hands up Harry’s torso and Harry _moaned_ , drunk on the burning sensation of Draco’s cock impaling him. Draco kissed his jaw, pausing with light huffs each time he dragged his cock out to the ridge before sawing back in with a smooth hard thrust, stomach and chest draped warm and damp over Harry’s back. 

“God, I want you,” Harry breathed without thought. He felt overfull, every emotional filament lit up from the inside out. “I want you so much.”

“Harry— I’m going to— _nnghh_ —” Draco picked up the pace, his extended pumps in and out of Harry losing rhythm quickly. One arm came up to hook around Harry’s collarbone, the other sliding over his hip to feel for his cock. He groaned when he found Harry fully stiff again, erection bouncing with each of Draco’s thrusts. “I’m going to come in you.”

“Do it, fill me up, do it, do it,” Harry grunted, his words devolving into stifled pleas for more.

He tilted his head back to rest against Draco’s shoulder. Twisted it to kiss him. Draco’s eyes had gone dark as pitch and his mouth crashed over Harry’s possessively as they fucked together, Draco’s cock pounding his arse, his hand stroking Harry’s prick with frantic pulls. He rested his forefinger in Harry’s slit and pressed and he plunged deep, and it was somehow the perfect combination to heighten the pleasure bounding through Harry. He came nearly dry, arsehole spasming around Draco’s girth, cock jerking weak spurts as his orgasm took him. Draco gave a low cry, pistoning his hips, and followed Harry over the edge.

Harry felt it then, no part of him gone untouched by Draco anymore. He was slick with Draco’s spunk, had Draco’s cock and tongue in him, Draco’s body covering his. He clutched at Draco’s tense, shivering thigh and fucked back to take him in as Draco shuddered, to do what Draco had at Harry’s peak. He understood finally, the need to have all of it — everything, as much as Draco could give. And he wondered if that need, itself, was a choice he had made, too.

***

Afterward, they slept.

They managed to crawl into bed to doze, but when they woke, Harry could see the questions burning in Draco’s eyes. Each time it looked as though one had made its way to the tip of his tongue, he seemed to swallow it and focused on nonverbals — he kept his hands on Harry, as if nervous he might vanish or faint, though Harry tried to tell him it wouldn’t happen.

When Draco decided a Scourgify wasn’t good enough after their activities they showered, and Harry leaned into Draco’s touch as his soapy hand found Harry’s sore cock and arse. It was followed by his mouth, and Harry flattened shaking hands to the tile of his shower stall as Draco hummed on his knees behind him, dragging his tongue up Harry’s crease with long, lazy licks which somehow skipped his hole until Harry began whining, then turned into a sucking kiss, mouth clamped wetly around Harry’s rim, tongue dipping insistently into him. Draco skimmed a knuckle over Harry’s perineum and rolled his balls, tugged them, turning Harry into a wreck of mindless overstimulation, of trembles and moans. And if Harry’s ring finger flared warm a time or two as water poured over his neck and chest and Draco’s spit dripped messy down his crack, it was an easy enough thing to overlook.

Later, tiny rainbows still casting light over their bodies, they talked a little — quietly, like every word spoken was in danger of being overheard.

“You fantasised about me when you lost your virginity.”

Draco scoffed. His skin was still flushed from the shower, the tips of his hair damp, and hickies blatantly dotted the fair skin of his throat and stomach. “Wanting to shag someone doesn’t mean anything.”

“And yet.” Harry ran his thumb against his ring finger, and Draco looked at him curiously. He lifted Harry’s hand and gazed down at the lines across his palm — all unbroken now, except for the two original cracks in Harry’s lifeline.

“What happened?”

Harry sighed and outlined it. “Apparently, she’s quite the matchmaker,” he said. “As well as possibly being a sociopathic, parasitic Succubi who feeds off magical energy and love.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s the _definition_ of a good matchmaker,” Draco mumbled, yawning. “Of course, I’m referring to my mother.” Harry snorted and felt Draco’s smile against his shoulder. “How did you know that kissing me wouldn’t result in—”

“Just did.” Harry swallowed then said, truthfully, “And… didn’t.”

“You should take up a career in public speaking.”

“Haha.”

“No, really,” Draco insisted dryly. “I could listen to your in-depth explanations all day.”

Harry sought inspiration from the ceiling. “It was something she said about holding myself back,” he said reluctantly, face growing warm. “And having moments where I knew I’d picked… this.”

“So you had no real certainty that you wouldn’t go shuttling through the mysteries of space and time,” Draco said with a narrow look. Under his breath, he added, “Of course I’d get an idiot as a soulmate.”

It came out contemptuous — of Harry’s decision making skills, or maybe just of him in general — but trembled with question on the last syllable, like he wasn’t sure it was okay to talk about.

“Is that much worse than getting a pompous arsehole who wanted to pretend to date me rather than just _asking_ to?” Harry asked after a weighty pause. Draco glared at him, unamused.

“I could cheerfully kill you right now.”

“And yet,” Harry said again. He smiled.

They fucked once more in the early morning hours. It was enough to wake up with Draco’s leg draped across his hips, his arm flung wide over Harry’s chest, but Harry burned with familiar temptation and since he had no real reason to deny himself anymore, he snaked his way carefully down Draco’s sleeping body and slung his thighs over his shoulders to return the favour from the shower.

Draco woke up with hard, broken groans while Harry burrowed his tongue into his arse, Draco’s hole already contracting around it. He tasted warm and male and clean and Harry rolled his hips against the sheets, almost coming from that alone before rising to fuck him slow and deep. Harry kissed him for long minutes and took his time getting there, enjoying the shivers of Draco’s body around him. Draco’d writhed and jacked himself leisurely until he splattered Harry’s stomach with hot semen as Harry tried — and giddily failed — to hold off.

When he came, it was to the exquisite flutter of Draco’s arse around his prick, to Draco’s lingering fingers at his nape and low, beautifully filthy encouragements against his lips as the sun, finally, spilled light over the horizon.

***

“I did _not_ need to hear all of that,” Ron said. He leaned back in his chair, looking like he’d aged a couple of decades since Harry’s arrival. He also looked like he’d appreciate a large drink. Harry glanced at the clock and smiled. Six hours left of Ron’s shift.

“You asked what happened,” Harry said, smirking. He lifted his feet up and propped them on Ron’s desk, to his visible irritation. “Your Owl said both the letter I sent you and the report I sent in were ‘crap’ and you insisted on ‘knowing everything’ because Hermione was driving you ‘thestralshit crazy’ talking about it, and if I wasn’t going to open my Floo, I had to tell you everything as soon as I came in.”

“I wasn’t asking for _sexual details_.” Harry lifted a pointed eyebrow. Ron huffed. “I tell _you_ things because I’m working them out, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“And I don’t hate Malfoy anymore,” Ron said, though his quickly-concealed grimace was telling. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Of course not.”

“But— You’re okay being,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, eyes darting from side to side, though they were alone in his office, “Malfoy’s soulmate? _Malfoy’s?_ ”

Harry shrugged and grinned. It was easy to grin when you had a lot of sex with someone you liked — who still bothered you just enough that it felt really dirty. No wonder Ron sometimes went around looking like a lunatic on euphoria potions. “It happens everywhere, so I don’t think I have much choice in the matter.”

“No, really.” Ron’s tone turned serious; his eyebrows pulled inward. With an awkward sort of earnestness that made Harry pay attention, he said, “We were worried.”

Sighing, Harry took his feet off Ron’s desk and looked out the window to buy some time. In the week since he’d kissed Draco, he still hadn’t decided if everything had happened so slowly he hadn’t been able to see it, or just too quickly for him to process. Maybe both. But waking up next to Draco at almost noon and eating breakfast in bed had continued to feel fantastic — despite the fact that they’d twice made trips to the duelling gym when they argued and were too sore from sex to go another round. 

Maybe _because_ of, a little.

He rubbed his forehead and tried to corral his thoughts. “I’m okay with it, I think. Yeah.”

“If you’re sure,” Ron said, clearly dubious.

“It’s good,” Harry said. “Really good. Good enough that I didn’t realise it could _be_ so good.”

Ron glared. “If you ever tell me another detail about how you’re shagging him, I won’t talk to you for a year.”

“Hey, he’s shagging me too.” Harry paused. “But, wait, that’s not what I meant. I just—” His face grew warm, and he dragged a distracted hand through his hair. “I like him. I don’t know what the soulmate thing means, really, but it’s not as bad as I thought.” He shrugged again.

“I always knew he had a thing for you. I just thought your thing for _him_ was like mine,” Ron mumbled, woeful.

Harry snickered. “My _thing_ for Draco—”

“Don’t even think about finishing that. And at least show enough respect for our friendship to call him ‘Malfoy’ around me,” Ron said, turning an unhealthy shade of red. He blew out a breath. Harry tried not to look too amused. “Did you hear about the wizard? Barclay?”

“Yeah, I read about it.” Harry winced. “I’ve no clue how to contact Alina again, or even if I should, if it’s possible. She said they’d made a deal and sealed it with a wand tap. If he’s gone into another magical coma, he’s…” He sighed. “Probably happier than he would be outside it, no matter the consequences.”

Which probably wouldn’t take very long, he privately thought. The _Prophet_ had mentioned Barclay’s ‘rapid deterioration,’ once he’d slipped back into unconsciousness. Ron nodded thoughtfully, watching him, and Harry thought he was going to get another lecture on how it wasn’t his duty to save everyone, but after another second, Ron let it go.

“So are you back on duty, then?”

“Oh. No.” Surprised, Harry checked the clock again. “I just really came in to let you know I’m leaving.”

“The _Auror force?_ ” Ron breathed, eyes bulging. The look of needing a drink intensified.

Harry smirked and rolled his eyes. “No! On holiday, you git. I already cleared it with Robards. Draco’s busy talking to Hermione, and then we’re leaving for a few weeks. He’s got a villa in Greece and, if I can talk him into it, I’ve always wanted to see New York.”

Seeming no less shocked by Harry’s travel plans than he’d been when he thought Harry was quitting, Ron’s mouth gaped open for several seconds before he recovered.

“That’s… fast,” he said lamely.

“A bit. Not particularly,” Harry said, mind wandering to how Draco looked in his Quidditch leathers back in fifth year. “But we can always hex each other and get a portkey if it goes pear shaped. Or just shag again. Besides, I haven’t travelled loads, and I’ve always wanted to,” he pointed out. “And I have about a year’s worth of holiday saved. A few weeks is nothing.”

“Okay,” Ron said, blinking. “So you’ve thought about this.”

“Just enough that I don’t talk myself out of it,” Harry said honestly. “As per usual.”

Finally, Ron cracked a smile. “Which generally works out well enough.”

“My thoughts exactly. I’ll be needing our office for a few important meetings with Malfoy when I get back, just so you know.” Harry stood. “I’ll firecall you from Greece, okay?”

Ron spread his hands in a sort of helplessly amused gesture. “Don’t marry him without us there, alright?”

Harry snorted and pushed open Ron’s door. He stilled. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Draco flicked a glance over Harry’s shoulder to Ron. “Weasley.”

“Malfoy,” Ron said, coming up behind Harry. “Return him as-is.”

“Sexually satisfied for the first time in his life?”

“Hey!” Harry’s objection was weak, but he felt saying nothing would give up some ground. “I’ve had good sex. There was that Muggle bloke last year, remember? And Ginny and I—”

“ _Oh_ no, you’re not making this worse.” Ron gave him a little shove and Harry tripped forward into Draco, whose quick step back made him stumble further. He whipped both of them a withering glance. Ron shrugged, unapologetic.

“You said I could talk about her,” Harry said. “You’re a liar.”

“And you’re now out of our office far enough that—” He shut the door. Harry turned to Draco, who raised his eyebrows, impressed.

“That was well done,” he said with a thoughtful glance backward as they started walking.

“Just what Ron’s always wanted: your approval,” Harry said. He cleared his throat. “How much did you overhear?”

“Enough to know that you’re ‘okay’ with me, and already planning the guest list to our wedding. Shouldn’t we pick a date first? I’ll be on holiday for the next three weeks, but after that, I’m fairly free. My mother will want a say over the decorations, though; be warned.”

Harry flushed. With some effort, he kept his voice mild. “Did I forget to mention that Alina told me same sex soulmates could impregnate each other? Because we should figure out which one of us wants to do that part, if we’re getting married and all. I vote you.”

Draco stopped in his tracks, eyes round and horrified. After searching Harry’s face for several seconds, his lip curled with disdain. He resumed walking, skirting around the MLE reception wizard’s desk. “That’s _revolting_. Why would you even—”

“So we’re agreed,” Harry said, giving in to the temptation to grin. “If you can make jokes about the future, I can too.”

“Mine was funny,” Draco said. “Also, your hair is stupid.”

Harry ignored that as patently false — Draco’s hands seemed to find his hair with almost disturbing regularity in bed.

“What was the thing you wanted from Hermione?” he asked as they waited for the lift. “You were down on nine for a long time.”

The doors opened and people spilled out around them in a flurry of movement. Harry saw Draco’s jaw bunch, and looked down as Draco, over-casual, laced their fingers together. He glanced back up at the strange hush and swallowed; several people had noticed. They got on the lift and Draco exhaled, dropping Harry’s hand. He started unbuttoning his robes.

“I think the hand-holding was a big enough statement,” Harry said uncertainly, even as his cock twitched in his jeans. “That’ll be all over the papers for weeks; we don’t need anyone to see us, uh, compromised.” Though he couldn’t deny being interested.

Draco snickered. “Another time, maybe. I thought to get the first wave of gossip out of the way while we were gone,” he said.

He shrugged off his robes to reveal the dove-gray three piece suit he’d had to put on when Harry had flooed over to his flat that morning, only to come all over the trousers of the navy suit he’d originally been wearing. Harry’s mouth ran dry; Draco’s trousers were more tailored than any had a right to be. He reached out and cautiously fingered the tiny, mother-of-pearl buttons of Draco’s waistcoat, snugly fitted to his deceptively skinny torso. 

After taking off his jacket and slinging it and his robes over his forearm, Draco loosened the knot of his tie and followed the path of Harry’s fingers with his eyes. He said, “If you come on this one too, I’ll hex you so inventively, I swear to Merlin it will make you cry.”

Harry pulled his hand away. He coughed. “Hermione?”

“Oh, yeah. I was calling in my favour; I want a research subdivision, and she has enough pull to get things started,” Draco said, hooking a brow up. With a wicked glint in his eye, he leaned against the wall of the lift and crossed his legs, jutting his hips out a notch. Harry could see the soft bulge of his cock and balls through the expensive material of his trousers. It twitched as he stared, and when he looked up, Draco was smirking. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Like it’s any easier for you. You’re already getting hard,” he said with a gesture as the doors opened. Harry resisted the urge bury his face in his hands at the expressions of the people waiting.

“That _really_ ought to do it,” Draco commented smugly as they strode toward the Floos.

“A subdivision?” Harry asked.

“Mm. I’m interested in a specialised study of Brain and Time. We also need a study of Fate more comprehensive than the Hall of Prophecy, which I wouldn’t oversee, but would be useful to the research. It might take awhile to set up, but she’s on it,” Draco said, a faint tinge of excitement spreading over his cheekbones. Harry’s stomach fluttered and he took Draco’s hand again, just because. The stain of pink on Draco’s face deepened, but he merely lengthened his strides through the winding halls of the Ministry, wordlessly tightening his grip on Harry’s hand.

“It’s a hell of a favour,” Harry said.

“I was owed,” Draco muttered. They arrived at the Floos and got in the queue. “I’m owed another, you know.”

Harry looked at him suspiciously. “I never really _agreed_ to—”

Draco raised his chin. “You didn’t not.”

“Fine.” Harry sighed, one corner of his mouth pulling up. He glanced around and saw a few eyes on them, threw out a mental ‘fuck it,’ and drew Draco in. Draco made a small, surprised sound, but edged into Harry’s space and dipped his head a touch til their lips fit together in a slow, uncomplicated kiss. The buzz of noise around them grew, and Draco finally pulled away and turned back to the line. Breathlessly, Harry said, “Let me know when you have ideas.”

“About that,” Draco said. He coughed into his fist.

“Yeah?”

“Well.” Draco stared forward. From the corner of his mouth, he said, “I know you’re glad to be no one but, ah, _this_ you, after…” He flapped a hand. “But I was wondering how you’d feel about… being a pirate again, sometime.”

Harry looked at him, at the swoop of colour sliding down his cheeks to his throat. He laughed. “Tell you what, Malfoy,” he said. “I’ll give you one for one. We can work our way through the good bits.”

“What would you start with?” Draco asked archly. The line dwindled and they stepped forward. “The rentboy, right?”

“The rock singer,” Harry said. “You looked hot in torn jeans and smeared mascara.”

“I look hot wherever I go.”

Harry thought of being able to watch Draco on the long, secluded strip of beach, where they’d have lots of time to kill. He thought of the billions of worlds that included them both.

“I noticed,” Harry said.

“Is that right?”

“I always do,” he said truthfully, and Draco flashed his lopsided little smile, irrepressible and fond. “I notice every one of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magpie's AU tumblr prompts series can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/936696)! :D
> 
> Her works referenced in this chapter:
> 
>  
> 
> [Tangiers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13992318)
> 
>  
> 
> [The Dare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582527)

**Author's Note:**

> Tropes used in Harry's alternate-reality jumping include (but aren't limited to), Dark!Harry, Creature fics, Rentboys, and D/s. If any of those aren't your shtick, no worries, loves! <3
> 
> Magpie's full AU Tumblr prompts series can be found: [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/936696)
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr](bixgirl1.tumblr.com) now, too! *waves*
> 
> (And so is [magpiefngrl](magpiefngrl.tumblr.com)!)
> 
> Comments and kudos are lovely. <3


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